"A Storm in the West", Chapter One
Title: A Storm in the West
Chapter: 1/13
Fandom: Arashi
Character, Pairing(s): no pairings yet
Rating: T
Warnings: Language, violence, sexual situations.
Summary: A saloon owner with an enigmatic past, an idealistic sheriff, a remorseful shotgun messenger, and the town that unites them.
There was a long-standing animosity between the owner of the saloon and the local sheriff, and it wasn't entirely based on the fact that in the six months of living in Rapid Springs, the sheriff had never once paid off his tab- though that did, of course, create more than a little tension between the two when they managed to run into each other out on the dusty road. Long-standing might be pushing it a bit, to be truthful; the sheriff was new 'round the parts, and replacing the one shot dead by train bandits probably wasn't an easy task.
It was everything about him, right down to that spiked star on his lapel. It was the way he carried himself when he walked through the squeaking doors, like he owned the place, like the deed was in his pocket and not in the iron box upstairs underneath the bed. It was the way he tipped his hat to everyone he passed by and expected them to answer, because he was the sheriff, and he could just let the Indians ravage their children at night if he really wanted to. It was the way that he had never, ever learned that tipping was a valuable and necessary course of action when one pours you glass after glass of whiskey from the top shelf.
Actually, come to think of it- and Ninomiya did think about it, a lot, often while he was glowering over the top of the bar countertop at the sheriff with his boots up on the table- it was mostly because the law-maker parked himself in the corner of the saloon every Thursday, and stayed until close.
Thursday had at one point been Nino's best business day. The girls dolled up their classiest (and he used the word classy in the loosest possible sense, because he had bought the combined cabinet of dresses in the backroom for a little more than a dollar) and the men had come in with cigars and full pockets, and there had been games. Games of chance, games of luck; games that were just begging to be cheated at, and thusly brawled over, and the sheer amount of recompense Nino could extort out of the drunk bastards had managed to pay the rent three months in advance every time. His Thursday nights had been known three towns over as the best in the parts, attracting the most money and the most infamous rollers.
And now Thursdays were dead, because the sheriff was whistling to himself in the corner every time the day rolled around, tossing a penny up in the air (and often dropping it, because his hand-eye coordination never seemed to be quite 100%).
Not to mention he had still not paid his outstanding tab.
Ninomiya thought he was a generous fellow- okay, maybe not generous in the usual sense, but magnanimous enough that he only jacked the price of whiskey up 10% when one of his chairs ended up losing a leg in a particularly ugly brawl- but even his patience was being tested as the sheriff continued loitering around his place of business. He might have been able to ignore the drop in Thursday's usual rough-and-tumble crowd, but the sheriff had a mean glare that he turned on the girls when they came out from behind the slightly-used curtains, and it made them squeak and flutter and turn right back around.
So Nino wasn't getting any business from the cards. He wasn't getting any business from the outlaws who had just robbed a train and wanted to spend the money before it got cold in their fingers. He wasn't even getting any money from the corner of ill-repute that was obviously not a brothel because his inn didn't have enough rooms for that sort of thing (it was really more of a rent-a-girl by the hour type of service, and that seemed to go over well for most of the customers anyway).
And the damn sheriff wouldn't pay off his damn tab, which could at least allow Nino to buy some more tequila from across the border.
Nino huffed particularly loudly and scraped against the countertop a bit harder than was necessary.
The sheriff noticed this, and glanced over, looking irritatingly perky.
"Doing good business?" he asked, in a way that was entirely too casual- he flipped his coin again, and it pinged against the floor, and he obviously tried to pretend that dropping it had been intentional.
"No," Nino said pointedly, hoping the man would get the hint and leave. He never did.
"Well, you know what they say," the sheriff replied. There was silence. When nothing else seemed to be following, Nino let his fingertips dance across the countertop.
"No, I don't know what they say," he said.
"Oh," the sheriff said. "Well, they say that this place is gettin' cleaned up."
"My saloon?" Nino asked, with one eyebrow nearly to his hairline. "Or the area in general?"
The law-maker bent down to pick up the dropped coin, and finally flipped his boots off the table in front of him- Nino would have to get one of the girls to clean it later, since he figured no one really wanted mud under their liquor glasses.
"Everything," came the vague response. "Cleanin' up. Not gonna be full of outlaws for much longer."
Nino wanted very badly to throw something, but the thing with the sheriff was that it was next to impossible to find anything to legitimately be angry about. He couldn't very well start raging about how his whores weren't making enough money to justify keeping any longer, or how he'd been reduced to a quarter of his liquor sales per week without the dice games; that would be admitting his hand in the very things the sheriff had managed to rout.
He tended to get more snippy than usual because he didn't have anywhere to direct his ire.
The sheriff sauntered over to the counter and slapped his palm down on the top; the coin pinged against the wood.
"Well, it's good to see, isn't it?" he asked. Nino had to bite his lip to keep his temper back.
"Sure," he finally managed to reply without sounding strangled. "Good to see."
The sheriff gave him the annoying hat-tilt, and unhurriedly made his way out the swinging doors, and Nino watched, hoping that one would hit him in the ass as he left. With the sheriff gone, the tension within the structure dipped immediately- Scarlet even felt brave enough to peek out around the curtain again.
The man at the counter- the only man at the counter- clicked his fingernails against the rim of his glass a few times to signal Nino over.
"Guy's got you on a tight leash," he said, sun-burned face wrinkling unattractively. Nino just pulled the stopper out of the whiskey bottle.
"More?" he asked. There was a nod of ascent, and the outsider began tapping his fingers against the wood of the bar, looking thoughtful.
"Know what you need?" he asked, and none of Nino's answers were going to be pleasant enough to keep him there drinking more, so he stayed silent. "A card game."
"Can't," Nino said, waspishly. "Sheriff's got his eye on me now. Already ran out my last one."
"Not a standing appointment," the stranger said. "A once-in-a-lifetime chance for luck."
Nino glanced to the side, checking the occupancy; Scarlet was talking with one of the other stragglers, and there was a man in the far corner slumped over his arm onto the table, empty glass beside him. After a moment, Nino leaned in, over the counter.
"I'm listening," he said.
"Sandburg Boys are back," the stranger whispered. Nino pushed himself back from the counter with force- more than he needed, because his back hit the shelves of liquor behind him, rattling the glass. He glared at the outsider, with his towel in one hand.
"Sandburg Boys killed our last sheriff," he warned, keeping his voice low.
"You need 'em," the man said, gesturing towards the empty saloon around him. The motion was unnecessary; Nino was already aware of how painfully he did need the outlaws again. "They got money. And they're lookin' to spend."
Nino looked across the tables again. They didn't need to be cleaned, because no one had sat in them all day, but he'd do it anyway, before closing. The girls hadn't had a proper meal in days. His stores were getting dangerously low, and the money in the cashbox was running precariously thin. Thinking about it made his chest constrict- but it was an old ache, and it was hardly applicable anymore.
He set the towel down on the counter, deliberately.
"You know how to reach them?" he asked, holding himself up with his palms, fingers wrapping around the corner of the bar-top.
"Aye," came the response.
Nino glanced at Scarlet, and at the sleeping man in the corner.
"Saturday night," he said, pursing his lips. "One week from Saturday night."
The stranger just nodded, drinking slowly from his glass and watching Nino over the rim with shrewd eyes that he didn't entirely care for.
"Tell them that," Nino repeated. "It'll be here."
-------
The desert cooled off mighty quick at night. The dry, unforgiving heat during the day that left the brim of his hat soaked through and stained with sweat was gone, replaced now with a chilly breeze coming down from the plateaus that raised the hair on his arms. And the fact that there were plateaus (and mountains and gullies and endless spans of tan, sun-battered rock) still took some getting used to.
It hadn’t been this way back home. Tree-lined boulevards, houses of brick and stone, and newspapers from the shouting kid on the street corner. Life in Rapid Springs was a far cry from Boston. Out here, there was no choking smoke from factory soot. Out here, the women didn’t wear the latest fashions from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. Out here, the men didn’t find employment as bankers or surgeons or professors. In Rapid Springs, there was a branch of the New Mexico Territory Savings and Loan in the town ten miles north. In Rapid Springs, the local doctor was also the local funeral home operator. And in Rapid Springs, there was talk of opening a schoolhouse in a few years if any new families decided to move to town.
“You could be a constable in any respectable community,” his father had said, infuriated. “You’ll get yourself strung up and killed.”
“Nothing but loose women and Satan’s lot out west,” his mother had said, horrified. “Stay here with us.”
But Boston wasn’t where he belonged. The dime novels he’d devoured in the long nights away at boarding school, and the stories of the brave men with tin stars, standing alone against the cruelty of life away from civilization. These ideas had lit a fire in Sho that he couldn’t stamp out. There was adventure to be had. Everything was new. You made your own name and didn’t rely on the one you were born with.
It hadn’t been an easy road. He’d been a Boston police officer for the better part of a year, saving money to take him west. There’d been no destination in mind. He just knew his place was out there. An application to the territorial government had been accepted, and he’d taken a train and three stagecoaches to get to Santa Fe. Then he’d only been there a few weeks before the opening came here in Rapid Springs.
Six months now without the tree-lined boulevards and houses of brick and stone. He slept on a straw mattress in the sheriff’s station. His throat was always dry from the sand and the grit, and his eyes equally so. But he’d made it. No father or mother to coddle him or try to set up some arrangement with another gentleman’s daughter. Out here, he was in charge. He was justice. He alone was the law.
As he strolled leisurely up the dirt path, Main Street as it were, Sheriff Sakurai felt the cold on his skin. The oil lamps lighting the entrance to Ninomiya’s saloon were behind him, and only the moon and stars guided him home. His boots hit the wooden steps and he unlocked the door to the station, turning the latch. Shotguns were in the glass case on the wall, a far cry from the club he’d carried in Boston.
He lit a candle and dressed for bed in his small room just to the left of the holding cells. Another successful Thursday with whiskey in his belly and the satisfaction of saving a few men from letting their greed or lust consume them. Rapid Springs would grow and change for the better under his leadership.
As he laid down and extinguished the candle, Sho dreamed of the New Mexico sun rising and setting at the sheriff’s command.
-------
"I think you're too hard on him," Ohno said, voice half-muffled behind a particularly large stack of boxes. The crates were a bit unstable, wobbling as he moved past them, and Nino put a hand out to keep the entire pile from falling over. Ohno seemed oblivious; his hair was in his eyes again, and he was covered in sweat- though, they all were, as the temperatures climbed even higher towards noon. The apron 'round his waist was already grimy from carting goods back and forth from the storeroom.
"I'm not being overly harsh," Nino said. He frowned, and watched as Ohno began unpacking a crate with salted meat inside. "Do you know how difficult it is to keep business when he's skulking around the corner the whole time?"
"I don't think sheriffs skulk," Ohno mused aloud. He wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing oil across his face in the process. He turned as the bell to the front door jingled, but it was just Clive, the farmer's son from beyond the church, dropping off grain. Ohno took the delivery, and gave the boy a handful of grain and one of the rolls- he was too soft, Nino often thought, giving away merchandise in return for goods he was already paying for- and then Clive left, ringing the bell again. Already the sun was streaming in through the grimy windows, painting the floor with a myriad of yellow hues.
Nino leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. It was dusty inside the dry goods store, but not uncomfortably so; the particles mingled with the sweet smell of baking bread, and it felt more familiar than stifling.
"Look, I'm trying," he said. "There's not much I can do right now. My hands are tied."
Ohno smiled at him, wiping at his face again.
"I know," the baker replied.
"It'll get better, okay?" Nino promised. He shifted forward a bit, hand settling on the cabinet of ammunition; powder in kegs, bullets and rounds in burlap bags. "I promise."
Ohno stopped mid-turn towards the cast iron oven, dough in his palms. He gave Nino one of those looks- one of those looks where Nino was pretty sure he knew exactly what was going on, but wasn't going to say anything, because it was Ohno, and he kept out of people's business. Nino was willing to bet that Ohno knew half the town's secrets, and hadn't uttered a word of any of them. For all his vacant gazing, sometimes he was bizarrely observant.
"Just- don't do anything reckless," the shop owner said, softly, shoving the dough into the handspan opening in the iron and latching the door again.
"It's me," Nino joked, knowing full well that the comment was probably only going to make Ohno worry more rather than less. Ohno just gave him another unreadable look, and began wiping down the shelves in preparation for the day's stocking. He did everything deliberately, with so much care- Ohno loved his store. Ohno loved his bakery, even if Nino was probably one of the only people who entered daily to get bread from it. Ohno loved every corner of the building, right down to the store room in the back; the town was his pride and joy, the love of his life. Rapid Springs wasn't a hole in the wall to him, it was the expanse of desert just beyond the legal bounds, the never-ending sky meeting the beige horizon line.
The town- well, Nino didn't give a rat's ass about the town, but he did care about his friend. Rapid Springs had never done much for him.
"Maybe you should start selling something else," Ohno suggested. He was kneeling behind the stack of salt bags, straightening the corners.
"Like what?"
"More rooms?" was Ohno's response. Nino shifted his feet, dragging one boot heel across the wood boards with a frown.
"What for?" he shot back. "No one comes here; can't sell them all as it is. This town is dying."
"Don't say that," Ohno said. He stood, and looked a bit sad- the corners of his mouth were quirking downward. He shoved his rag in his apron pocket, moving back to the dough.
"You know it's true," Nino pointed out. "Ever since they built the railroad the town over, you know it's true. This place isn't on the map anymore."
Ohno gave him another smile, kneading the dough with his hands, flecks of flour sticking to his knuckles.
"Maybe you should give them something to come here for," he volunteered. "Play the piano like you used to."
Nino just flicked at a bit of dried dirt on his shirt sleeve.
"I'll give them something to come here for," he muttered, darkly, and that much was true- Saturday was a week away, and maybe he'd scrounge up enough business through the card game to get his backlog of bills paid. Anymore customer-less weeks and he was going to get denied liquor shipments. Thinking about the potential profit made him feel a bit less angry at Rapid Springs, and he let his head fall back against the support beam in the wall. The heat was swarming around his shoulders, making breathing difficult.
They stayed in companionable silence for awhile, until Ohno opened the oven door again and shut it with another thud.
"Check with Aiba," he offered, brushing his hands off- flour fell to the ground, sprinkling the wood, and caught on the hem of his pants. "He might know of someone that needs a room- he always gets word of the travelers first."
Nino launched himself out from the wall with a snap of his wrists, grabbing his hat from the crates nearby.
"Maybe I will," he said, though he didn't really mean it- should the card game pull through, the Sandburg Boys would be more than enough for the month. He straightened his shirt, pulling a bit at the buttons near his throat.
"Take care," Ohno called, as Nino made his way out of the general store, and into the unforgiving Rapid Springs heat.
--------
The gin was watered down, and yet the skinny slip of a bartender was charging full price. He moved the glass around the table, the warm liquid sloshing around the spotted glass. It was clear to him that the owner didn’t take much pride in his business. But it was the only place in town with beds, and he didn’t much fancy a night in someone’s pig sty. Much as he liked spending the night under the stars, there were scorpions, rattlesnakes and other nasties in the desert around these parts.
He sipped the drink, curling his toes inside his boots at the rotten taste. But it was better than trying to get water from the wells. With his hat low, the other patrons couldn’t see him too closely, but he could see them. The bartender was drunk himself, hiccupping and trying to proposition one of the girls. Some ranch hands were playing cards and then he smelled her before he saw her.
“Mind if I sit down?”
He tipped his hat back slightly. Her hair was curled, but not completely. And she was nearly pouring out of her dress. All he did was nod slightly. He wasn’t much in the mood for company, but at least she still had all her teeth.
“What brings you to Silver Creek, stranger?”
“Job.”
She nodded, reaching for his glass and taking a long sip from it. Well, he was done with that drink now. Lord knew what kind of diseases she might have been carrying. Silver Creek was enough of a blot on the map to have a saloon and a chapel, but not enough to have girls that were guaranteed clean. “What kind of job?”
“Escorted some items from Santa Fe for Mr. Randal’s store.”
She tapped her fingers on the worn, wooden tabletop. The nails were painted blood red, and he recoiled internally at the sight of them. “Oh, Mr. Randal’s a good man. A good Christian man.”
All he could do was nod, knowing that his new companion and Mr. Randal probably had known each other in the biblical sense once or twice. He wasn’t much for idle conversation and took his elbows from the table, leaning back against the seat. “Think I’ll be heading out now.”
She had those crimson fingertips wrapped around his wrist before he could stand. “Didn’t catch your name.”
“Didn’t offer it.”
Usually this put them off, acting cool and distant, but this one was itching for coin. Probably needed a new bonnet or some more paint for her face. “Come on now. We’re all friends here. I’m Strawberry.”
He sucked on the inside of his cheek. “Strawberry.”
She let one of her fingers slip under the sleeve, grazing his wrist and sending shivers both pleasant and unpleasant down his spine. “Cause I taste just as sweet.”
Jun took his arm away from her and adjusted his hat. “I’m sure you are, but I’m not buying what you’re selling. Not tonight.”
He turned, his heel meeting a creak in the floorboard. “Think I don’t know who you are, stranger? Think we’re nothin’ but a bunch of bumpkins out here?” He paused. “Ain’t no other man in this part of the territory got a bullet hole through the brim of his hat like that. Wouldn’t want Sheriff Barnes to know you’re planning to stick around here.”
Well, he could cross Silver Creek off his list of places to accept work. Maybe he oughta just head up north, find a mine in Nevada and just break his back. Fame (or infamy) had never suited him. He held out his hand. “Okay, Strawberry.”
She accepted, following him up the stairs round back of the saloon and up to the second floor where his room was. He tossed his hat on the bed, and she was already unpinning her hair. “None of that,” he told her. “You aren’t staying long.”
Her smile was like a devil, one of the sirens luring an ancient sailor to his doom. “Suit yourself, darlin’, I won’t tell anyone you came through, and Mr. Randal won’t either.” She moved her hands up and down his chest, fingers catching on his suspenders. He pushed her down, his own hand twisting in the dyed red curls until she was kneeling.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
She reached for the top button of his trousers. “Don’t I just?”
--------
The sounds of a hammer meeting steel rang far beyond the structure of the rickety building on the edge of town that looked like it had seen better days. It was hot, and the bugs were swarming, and Sho swatted them away unconsciously with his hand as he walked across the pebble-strewn street. The lack of rain was making everything all the more dusty, and he'd never be able to get it out of his clothes again; not that it mattered, really, because he never planned on going back to Boston, and people 'round Rapid Springs were used to dirt embedded in their fabrics. It was just another thing he hadn't quite gotten used to yet.
The heat was driving most of the civilians inside, but if the rhythmic pounding noises were any indication, the blacksmith was still hard at work under the canopy of his shoddy roof. Sho paused for a moment, and then rapped his knuckles against the beam at the side of the structure. The blacksmith's shop didn't have much by way of four walls- it was largely open, to allow better air circulation, but he still felt odd entering without permission. Call it old-fashioned, but it was a protocol engrained in his blood.
There was a small crash, and a thud, like something heavy meeting dirt.
"Here!" came the call in response, and Sho stepped over the bounds. It was hot within, even with the airflow, and the oppressive heat pounded him in the face. There was a whinny from a horse, and a snort, followed by several clodding hooves against the floor.
The blacksmith was bent over the horse's left back leg, fingers resting on the bulbs just above the heels.
"Can I help?" Sho asked, hands on his hips.
"Know how to shoe a horse?" came the response.
"No," Sho admitted.
"Then you can't help, sheriff, sorry." It was accompanied by a smile, so Sho knew it wasn't meant to be derogatory, but he still felt a bit awkward standing off to the side watching the man at work. He was never quite sure how he should act or feel around Aiba- as deputy, the blacksmith really should have been promoted after the previous sheriff's death. Why he hadn't been, Sho didn't wholly know- nor did he know why he had been summoned when there had been an alternative within Rapid Springs already.
But Aiba had never seemed angered by the look-over, and he'd never treated Sho with anything other than cheerful respect, so Sho imagined the majority of the tension was of his own internal creation.
The blacksmith glanced over at him again, nodding and gesturing towards a stack of tools near the embers.
"Hand me the rasp?" he asked.
Sho dug through the tools until he came across what he assumed to be the correct one, and set it in Aiba's waiting hand. He watched as the man smoothed down the edge of the hoof where it met the metal of the shoe with easy precision, and then stepped back when Aiba stood again, dusting his palms off on his apron.
"Did you need something?" he asked, in a way that was neither accusing nor suspicious; Aiba had a way of speaking that tended to bring ease, like he had no demands of other people. Sho had really never met anyone as automatically trusting as the blacksmith, especially back home, where corruption seemed to be everywhere, but Aiba floated through Rapid Springs with a smile and the good graces of nearly everyone else living there.
"Just thought I would check in," Sho said.
"Always vigilant," Aiba laughed, and moved to the forge again.
"Figure they're paying me to do something 'round here, right?" Sho agreed, with a smirk. He sat on one of the crates a little off to the side of the fire, so the heat wasn't blowing straight into his face. Watching Aiba work was interesting- sometimes the man would just stop in the middle of something, as if struck by a genius idea, and would go off and tinker with something else for awhile instead. There seemed to be very little rhyme or reason to his workings, and his unpredictability made observing him all the more amusing.
"For what it's worth," Aiba called, over his shoulder, "I think you're doing a good job."
The compliment pleased him more than he thought it would.
"Thank you," he answered, touched. "I- well, I'm trying."
"Out here, that's usually all that counts," Aiba laughed. He grabbed a large poker and stuck it in the embers, wiggling them around until the bright spots of orange flared up brighter and made popping noises.
"I don't think Ninomiya likes me very much," Sho mused, after a little while of watching the blacksmith continue working on melding something out of iron over the heat. He bit his bottom lip, examining the dirt permanantly encrusted between his fingernails.
"Ninomiya doesn't really like anyone," the other man replied. He wheezed a bit when the smoke got particularly thick around his form, waving it away.
"Seems an odd profession for someone who doesn't like people," Sho said.
"Well-" Aiba started, and then stopped, all movement in his form stilling. There was a long moment of quiet when it seemed like he was going to say something, but in the end, he just smiled a bit and shook his head in Sho's direction, resuming his ministrations to the tools over the fire. "Mmm."
It was an affirmation, but a dismissive one, and still feeling a bit out of place, Sho didn't want to push it. He hoisted himself up to his feet again, sticking his hands in his pockets. His thumb brushed across his gun holster, and it made him feel a bit better- more secure, anyway, and that was worth a lot past the Mississippi.
"Anyway," Sho said, without anything better to insert into the tension, "I think I'll go see what Doc Ogura is up to, then."
"Come back if you need any help with holdin' up laws, okay?" Aiba replied.
"Got it," Sho said, with a nod. "Thanks."
He left the blacksmith working over the embers, and trudged back into the midday sun.
-------
His register was filling, and soon he’d have to move some of the cash to his safe in his back office. He was nearly out of booze, but Ohno had been kind enough to donate from his own stores. It helped when your best friend owned the only general store within ten miles.
Nino never had great nights because someone always let loose their stomach contents on his freshly scrubbed floorboards or tried to pass off a fake coin or two, but at the very least he could count this as a good night. A group of about twenty men had arrived at half past nine, and it was past midnight now. Every single one of his girls was occupied in the rooms upstairs while down here, there were clouds of cigar smoke, raucous laughter and the sound of poker chips clinking on wood.
“Hey!” one of the inebriated ruffians called. “Round over here!”
“Of course,” he said, reaching for the brandy. The boss’ right hand man, Mendoza, was at that table, and as one of the organization’s higher ups, he liked to play at respectability. Which was fine by Nino since the brandy was brought in all the way from Cincinnati and he charged three times its worth due to its scarcity out west.
He filled the glasses and brought the tray over. Mendoza gave him a hearty slap on the back when he’d set the glasses down. “You’re alright, Ninomiya, you’re alright.”
“More cigars, gentlemen?”
“Slim’s liable to burn this place to ashes the way he’s downing the juice tonight,” one of the gang at the table chuckled.
Mendoza moved his hand to Nino’s wrist, an iron grip that would be threatening if he and the Sandburg Boys didn’t get on so well. “I ever tell you I’m descended from the Aztecs and the Toltecs and the Mayas?”
The others at Mendoza’s table laughed, slapping cards down or upping the ante. “Why, I don’t believe you have Mr. Mendoza.” He had. Multiple times, and in various states of sobriety. Mendoza was from Juarez and he fancied himself a Mexican aristocrat, although anyone who saw his swaggering walk or the missing eye tooth in his smile would know he was from humbler stock. But Nino played along. It was all a game really. The whole frontier, it was all one big joke of a game.
“Yes, sir,” Mendoza went on as Nino slyly snuck a few bills from his shirt sleeve and into Mendoza’s hand. “My great great granddaddy was a Mayan chief and his wife was an Aztec princess. My blood is 100 percent pure native. Everything from the tip of Argentina to Califor-nye-ay is Mendoza land.”
“You don’t say.” Mendoza was Mexican, of Spanish stock. If there was any Indian blood in him, his skin wasn’t dark enough to show it.
“I do say, Ninomiya, I do say.” Mendoza released him, shoving the previously concealed bills roughly into the pocket of his trousers. “Thank you kindly for hosting this fine event. Rapid Springs is on the up and up, I’m sure, with a shrewd businessman keeping things on the level.”
He nodded, excusing himself back to the bar to set up another round for a different table. As he reached under the bar for another bottle of whiskey for Dakota Jack’s table, he let his fingers brush the barrel of the shotgun strapped underneath. Fortunes could change at any time, and he didn’t need unruly bandits tearing up his establishment. As he poured another batch of drinks, May came hopping down the steps, still pulling her dress back down.
Nino felt her stick a wad of bills in his back pocket before wrapping her arms around his waist. “How we doing tonight?” she asked, gin and the smell of another man coming from her mouth.
“You gotta stop having this notion that there’s a we involved here, May,” he reprimanded her, elbowing the whore away from him. “This is my saloon, my business, and don’t you forget it.”
“Maybe you just need a drink.”
He grabbed her wrist tight and pulled her close. None of the bar patrons paid any attention. “Maybe you could find another place to spread ‘em.”
May shut up right quick, and he gave her a tap on the behind. “Mendoza’s table.” She went over and shoved her bosom right up in Mendoza’s face. Good girl. He distributed more drinks and headed back to wipe the counter down when the doors squeaked and the all too familiar and all too unwelcome sound of the sheriff’s boots met his floor.
“Evening, Mr. Ninomiya,” Sakurai said with that usual arrogance, the silver spoon he was born with shoved straight up his ass. “I see you’ve got quite a crowd tonight.” As the sheriff leaned against the bar, Nino ignored him, setting up some fresh glasses. This was not going to end well, and he caught May’s eye. She got off of Mendoza’s lap and headed for the back, leaving the gang man unsatisfied.
“Just another Saturday, Sheriff.”
Sakurai tapped the counter with his thumb. “Was over by Pastor White’s for the evening meal. His wife made a stew I’ll never forget.”
“That a fact?” Nino could immediately tell that the noise in the saloon had gone from boisterous to a cemetery as soon as the man with the star waltzed on in.
“And Pastor White was kind enough to give me a summary of tomorrow’s…” He paused for what he probably imagined was dramatic purposes, looking at the clock in the corner by the piano. “I’m sorry, I mean today’s sermon. On the evils of gambling, alcohol, whoring, all that business.”
Nino saw some of the men start gathering their chips and putting out their cigars. “Pastor White’s got a lot of fire and brimstone.”
“That he does,” the sheriff muttered. “That he does.”
He watched Mendoza snap his fingers and half the group was out the swinging doors before Nino could call them back. This bastard, this green, wet behind the ears Yankee was playing big man in town just because he bought himself a star from the territorial government. And it was going to leave Ninomiya in the poor house.
“Can I get you something, sheriff?”
Sho watched the last of the men depart, some of them half tumbling down the steps, pulling their trousers back up. “No, I’m so full I could pass out right here. I was just wondering what all the hubbub was over here. Since I was walking home from Pastor White’s, you know.”
“Right.”
The sheriff gave him that perfect smile, fixed real pretty like by one of them dentists back east. “Will I see you in church tomorrow, Mr. Ninomiya?”
“If I can make it,” he replied through gritted teeth.
“Hope you can. It should be a rousing sermon.” With that, without saying word one to any of the saloon’s customers, Sheriff Sakurai tipped his hat and departed with a bounce in his step.
As soon as the sheriff was clear of his property, Nino grabbed a glass from the counter and smashed it against the wall.
Chapter: 1/13
Fandom: Arashi
Character, Pairing(s): no pairings yet
Rating: T
Warnings: Language, violence, sexual situations.
Summary: A saloon owner with an enigmatic past, an idealistic sheriff, a remorseful shotgun messenger, and the town that unites them.
There was a long-standing animosity between the owner of the saloon and the local sheriff, and it wasn't entirely based on the fact that in the six months of living in Rapid Springs, the sheriff had never once paid off his tab- though that did, of course, create more than a little tension between the two when they managed to run into each other out on the dusty road. Long-standing might be pushing it a bit, to be truthful; the sheriff was new 'round the parts, and replacing the one shot dead by train bandits probably wasn't an easy task.
It was everything about him, right down to that spiked star on his lapel. It was the way he carried himself when he walked through the squeaking doors, like he owned the place, like the deed was in his pocket and not in the iron box upstairs underneath the bed. It was the way he tipped his hat to everyone he passed by and expected them to answer, because he was the sheriff, and he could just let the Indians ravage their children at night if he really wanted to. It was the way that he had never, ever learned that tipping was a valuable and necessary course of action when one pours you glass after glass of whiskey from the top shelf.
Actually, come to think of it- and Ninomiya did think about it, a lot, often while he was glowering over the top of the bar countertop at the sheriff with his boots up on the table- it was mostly because the law-maker parked himself in the corner of the saloon every Thursday, and stayed until close.
Thursday had at one point been Nino's best business day. The girls dolled up their classiest (and he used the word classy in the loosest possible sense, because he had bought the combined cabinet of dresses in the backroom for a little more than a dollar) and the men had come in with cigars and full pockets, and there had been games. Games of chance, games of luck; games that were just begging to be cheated at, and thusly brawled over, and the sheer amount of recompense Nino could extort out of the drunk bastards had managed to pay the rent three months in advance every time. His Thursday nights had been known three towns over as the best in the parts, attracting the most money and the most infamous rollers.
And now Thursdays were dead, because the sheriff was whistling to himself in the corner every time the day rolled around, tossing a penny up in the air (and often dropping it, because his hand-eye coordination never seemed to be quite 100%).
Not to mention he had still not paid his outstanding tab.
Ninomiya thought he was a generous fellow- okay, maybe not generous in the usual sense, but magnanimous enough that he only jacked the price of whiskey up 10% when one of his chairs ended up losing a leg in a particularly ugly brawl- but even his patience was being tested as the sheriff continued loitering around his place of business. He might have been able to ignore the drop in Thursday's usual rough-and-tumble crowd, but the sheriff had a mean glare that he turned on the girls when they came out from behind the slightly-used curtains, and it made them squeak and flutter and turn right back around.
So Nino wasn't getting any business from the cards. He wasn't getting any business from the outlaws who had just robbed a train and wanted to spend the money before it got cold in their fingers. He wasn't even getting any money from the corner of ill-repute that was obviously not a brothel because his inn didn't have enough rooms for that sort of thing (it was really more of a rent-a-girl by the hour type of service, and that seemed to go over well for most of the customers anyway).
And the damn sheriff wouldn't pay off his damn tab, which could at least allow Nino to buy some more tequila from across the border.
Nino huffed particularly loudly and scraped against the countertop a bit harder than was necessary.
The sheriff noticed this, and glanced over, looking irritatingly perky.
"Doing good business?" he asked, in a way that was entirely too casual- he flipped his coin again, and it pinged against the floor, and he obviously tried to pretend that dropping it had been intentional.
"No," Nino said pointedly, hoping the man would get the hint and leave. He never did.
"Well, you know what they say," the sheriff replied. There was silence. When nothing else seemed to be following, Nino let his fingertips dance across the countertop.
"No, I don't know what they say," he said.
"Oh," the sheriff said. "Well, they say that this place is gettin' cleaned up."
"My saloon?" Nino asked, with one eyebrow nearly to his hairline. "Or the area in general?"
The law-maker bent down to pick up the dropped coin, and finally flipped his boots off the table in front of him- Nino would have to get one of the girls to clean it later, since he figured no one really wanted mud under their liquor glasses.
"Everything," came the vague response. "Cleanin' up. Not gonna be full of outlaws for much longer."
Nino wanted very badly to throw something, but the thing with the sheriff was that it was next to impossible to find anything to legitimately be angry about. He couldn't very well start raging about how his whores weren't making enough money to justify keeping any longer, or how he'd been reduced to a quarter of his liquor sales per week without the dice games; that would be admitting his hand in the very things the sheriff had managed to rout.
He tended to get more snippy than usual because he didn't have anywhere to direct his ire.
The sheriff sauntered over to the counter and slapped his palm down on the top; the coin pinged against the wood.
"Well, it's good to see, isn't it?" he asked. Nino had to bite his lip to keep his temper back.
"Sure," he finally managed to reply without sounding strangled. "Good to see."
The sheriff gave him the annoying hat-tilt, and unhurriedly made his way out the swinging doors, and Nino watched, hoping that one would hit him in the ass as he left. With the sheriff gone, the tension within the structure dipped immediately- Scarlet even felt brave enough to peek out around the curtain again.
The man at the counter- the only man at the counter- clicked his fingernails against the rim of his glass a few times to signal Nino over.
"Guy's got you on a tight leash," he said, sun-burned face wrinkling unattractively. Nino just pulled the stopper out of the whiskey bottle.
"More?" he asked. There was a nod of ascent, and the outsider began tapping his fingers against the wood of the bar, looking thoughtful.
"Know what you need?" he asked, and none of Nino's answers were going to be pleasant enough to keep him there drinking more, so he stayed silent. "A card game."
"Can't," Nino said, waspishly. "Sheriff's got his eye on me now. Already ran out my last one."
"Not a standing appointment," the stranger said. "A once-in-a-lifetime chance for luck."
Nino glanced to the side, checking the occupancy; Scarlet was talking with one of the other stragglers, and there was a man in the far corner slumped over his arm onto the table, empty glass beside him. After a moment, Nino leaned in, over the counter.
"I'm listening," he said.
"Sandburg Boys are back," the stranger whispered. Nino pushed himself back from the counter with force- more than he needed, because his back hit the shelves of liquor behind him, rattling the glass. He glared at the outsider, with his towel in one hand.
"Sandburg Boys killed our last sheriff," he warned, keeping his voice low.
"You need 'em," the man said, gesturing towards the empty saloon around him. The motion was unnecessary; Nino was already aware of how painfully he did need the outlaws again. "They got money. And they're lookin' to spend."
Nino looked across the tables again. They didn't need to be cleaned, because no one had sat in them all day, but he'd do it anyway, before closing. The girls hadn't had a proper meal in days. His stores were getting dangerously low, and the money in the cashbox was running precariously thin. Thinking about it made his chest constrict- but it was an old ache, and it was hardly applicable anymore.
He set the towel down on the counter, deliberately.
"You know how to reach them?" he asked, holding himself up with his palms, fingers wrapping around the corner of the bar-top.
"Aye," came the response.
Nino glanced at Scarlet, and at the sleeping man in the corner.
"Saturday night," he said, pursing his lips. "One week from Saturday night."
The stranger just nodded, drinking slowly from his glass and watching Nino over the rim with shrewd eyes that he didn't entirely care for.
"Tell them that," Nino repeated. "It'll be here."
-------
The desert cooled off mighty quick at night. The dry, unforgiving heat during the day that left the brim of his hat soaked through and stained with sweat was gone, replaced now with a chilly breeze coming down from the plateaus that raised the hair on his arms. And the fact that there were plateaus (and mountains and gullies and endless spans of tan, sun-battered rock) still took some getting used to.
It hadn’t been this way back home. Tree-lined boulevards, houses of brick and stone, and newspapers from the shouting kid on the street corner. Life in Rapid Springs was a far cry from Boston. Out here, there was no choking smoke from factory soot. Out here, the women didn’t wear the latest fashions from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. Out here, the men didn’t find employment as bankers or surgeons or professors. In Rapid Springs, there was a branch of the New Mexico Territory Savings and Loan in the town ten miles north. In Rapid Springs, the local doctor was also the local funeral home operator. And in Rapid Springs, there was talk of opening a schoolhouse in a few years if any new families decided to move to town.
“You could be a constable in any respectable community,” his father had said, infuriated. “You’ll get yourself strung up and killed.”
“Nothing but loose women and Satan’s lot out west,” his mother had said, horrified. “Stay here with us.”
But Boston wasn’t where he belonged. The dime novels he’d devoured in the long nights away at boarding school, and the stories of the brave men with tin stars, standing alone against the cruelty of life away from civilization. These ideas had lit a fire in Sho that he couldn’t stamp out. There was adventure to be had. Everything was new. You made your own name and didn’t rely on the one you were born with.
It hadn’t been an easy road. He’d been a Boston police officer for the better part of a year, saving money to take him west. There’d been no destination in mind. He just knew his place was out there. An application to the territorial government had been accepted, and he’d taken a train and three stagecoaches to get to Santa Fe. Then he’d only been there a few weeks before the opening came here in Rapid Springs.
Six months now without the tree-lined boulevards and houses of brick and stone. He slept on a straw mattress in the sheriff’s station. His throat was always dry from the sand and the grit, and his eyes equally so. But he’d made it. No father or mother to coddle him or try to set up some arrangement with another gentleman’s daughter. Out here, he was in charge. He was justice. He alone was the law.
As he strolled leisurely up the dirt path, Main Street as it were, Sheriff Sakurai felt the cold on his skin. The oil lamps lighting the entrance to Ninomiya’s saloon were behind him, and only the moon and stars guided him home. His boots hit the wooden steps and he unlocked the door to the station, turning the latch. Shotguns were in the glass case on the wall, a far cry from the club he’d carried in Boston.
He lit a candle and dressed for bed in his small room just to the left of the holding cells. Another successful Thursday with whiskey in his belly and the satisfaction of saving a few men from letting their greed or lust consume them. Rapid Springs would grow and change for the better under his leadership.
As he laid down and extinguished the candle, Sho dreamed of the New Mexico sun rising and setting at the sheriff’s command.
-------
"I think you're too hard on him," Ohno said, voice half-muffled behind a particularly large stack of boxes. The crates were a bit unstable, wobbling as he moved past them, and Nino put a hand out to keep the entire pile from falling over. Ohno seemed oblivious; his hair was in his eyes again, and he was covered in sweat- though, they all were, as the temperatures climbed even higher towards noon. The apron 'round his waist was already grimy from carting goods back and forth from the storeroom.
"I'm not being overly harsh," Nino said. He frowned, and watched as Ohno began unpacking a crate with salted meat inside. "Do you know how difficult it is to keep business when he's skulking around the corner the whole time?"
"I don't think sheriffs skulk," Ohno mused aloud. He wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing oil across his face in the process. He turned as the bell to the front door jingled, but it was just Clive, the farmer's son from beyond the church, dropping off grain. Ohno took the delivery, and gave the boy a handful of grain and one of the rolls- he was too soft, Nino often thought, giving away merchandise in return for goods he was already paying for- and then Clive left, ringing the bell again. Already the sun was streaming in through the grimy windows, painting the floor with a myriad of yellow hues.
Nino leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. It was dusty inside the dry goods store, but not uncomfortably so; the particles mingled with the sweet smell of baking bread, and it felt more familiar than stifling.
"Look, I'm trying," he said. "There's not much I can do right now. My hands are tied."
Ohno smiled at him, wiping at his face again.
"I know," the baker replied.
"It'll get better, okay?" Nino promised. He shifted forward a bit, hand settling on the cabinet of ammunition; powder in kegs, bullets and rounds in burlap bags. "I promise."
Ohno stopped mid-turn towards the cast iron oven, dough in his palms. He gave Nino one of those looks- one of those looks where Nino was pretty sure he knew exactly what was going on, but wasn't going to say anything, because it was Ohno, and he kept out of people's business. Nino was willing to bet that Ohno knew half the town's secrets, and hadn't uttered a word of any of them. For all his vacant gazing, sometimes he was bizarrely observant.
"Just- don't do anything reckless," the shop owner said, softly, shoving the dough into the handspan opening in the iron and latching the door again.
"It's me," Nino joked, knowing full well that the comment was probably only going to make Ohno worry more rather than less. Ohno just gave him another unreadable look, and began wiping down the shelves in preparation for the day's stocking. He did everything deliberately, with so much care- Ohno loved his store. Ohno loved his bakery, even if Nino was probably one of the only people who entered daily to get bread from it. Ohno loved every corner of the building, right down to the store room in the back; the town was his pride and joy, the love of his life. Rapid Springs wasn't a hole in the wall to him, it was the expanse of desert just beyond the legal bounds, the never-ending sky meeting the beige horizon line.
The town- well, Nino didn't give a rat's ass about the town, but he did care about his friend. Rapid Springs had never done much for him.
"Maybe you should start selling something else," Ohno suggested. He was kneeling behind the stack of salt bags, straightening the corners.
"Like what?"
"More rooms?" was Ohno's response. Nino shifted his feet, dragging one boot heel across the wood boards with a frown.
"What for?" he shot back. "No one comes here; can't sell them all as it is. This town is dying."
"Don't say that," Ohno said. He stood, and looked a bit sad- the corners of his mouth were quirking downward. He shoved his rag in his apron pocket, moving back to the dough.
"You know it's true," Nino pointed out. "Ever since they built the railroad the town over, you know it's true. This place isn't on the map anymore."
Ohno gave him another smile, kneading the dough with his hands, flecks of flour sticking to his knuckles.
"Maybe you should give them something to come here for," he volunteered. "Play the piano like you used to."
Nino just flicked at a bit of dried dirt on his shirt sleeve.
"I'll give them something to come here for," he muttered, darkly, and that much was true- Saturday was a week away, and maybe he'd scrounge up enough business through the card game to get his backlog of bills paid. Anymore customer-less weeks and he was going to get denied liquor shipments. Thinking about the potential profit made him feel a bit less angry at Rapid Springs, and he let his head fall back against the support beam in the wall. The heat was swarming around his shoulders, making breathing difficult.
They stayed in companionable silence for awhile, until Ohno opened the oven door again and shut it with another thud.
"Check with Aiba," he offered, brushing his hands off- flour fell to the ground, sprinkling the wood, and caught on the hem of his pants. "He might know of someone that needs a room- he always gets word of the travelers first."
Nino launched himself out from the wall with a snap of his wrists, grabbing his hat from the crates nearby.
"Maybe I will," he said, though he didn't really mean it- should the card game pull through, the Sandburg Boys would be more than enough for the month. He straightened his shirt, pulling a bit at the buttons near his throat.
"Take care," Ohno called, as Nino made his way out of the general store, and into the unforgiving Rapid Springs heat.
--------
The gin was watered down, and yet the skinny slip of a bartender was charging full price. He moved the glass around the table, the warm liquid sloshing around the spotted glass. It was clear to him that the owner didn’t take much pride in his business. But it was the only place in town with beds, and he didn’t much fancy a night in someone’s pig sty. Much as he liked spending the night under the stars, there were scorpions, rattlesnakes and other nasties in the desert around these parts.
He sipped the drink, curling his toes inside his boots at the rotten taste. But it was better than trying to get water from the wells. With his hat low, the other patrons couldn’t see him too closely, but he could see them. The bartender was drunk himself, hiccupping and trying to proposition one of the girls. Some ranch hands were playing cards and then he smelled her before he saw her.
“Mind if I sit down?”
He tipped his hat back slightly. Her hair was curled, but not completely. And she was nearly pouring out of her dress. All he did was nod slightly. He wasn’t much in the mood for company, but at least she still had all her teeth.
“What brings you to Silver Creek, stranger?”
“Job.”
She nodded, reaching for his glass and taking a long sip from it. Well, he was done with that drink now. Lord knew what kind of diseases she might have been carrying. Silver Creek was enough of a blot on the map to have a saloon and a chapel, but not enough to have girls that were guaranteed clean. “What kind of job?”
“Escorted some items from Santa Fe for Mr. Randal’s store.”
She tapped her fingers on the worn, wooden tabletop. The nails were painted blood red, and he recoiled internally at the sight of them. “Oh, Mr. Randal’s a good man. A good Christian man.”
All he could do was nod, knowing that his new companion and Mr. Randal probably had known each other in the biblical sense once or twice. He wasn’t much for idle conversation and took his elbows from the table, leaning back against the seat. “Think I’ll be heading out now.”
She had those crimson fingertips wrapped around his wrist before he could stand. “Didn’t catch your name.”
“Didn’t offer it.”
Usually this put them off, acting cool and distant, but this one was itching for coin. Probably needed a new bonnet or some more paint for her face. “Come on now. We’re all friends here. I’m Strawberry.”
He sucked on the inside of his cheek. “Strawberry.”
She let one of her fingers slip under the sleeve, grazing his wrist and sending shivers both pleasant and unpleasant down his spine. “Cause I taste just as sweet.”
Jun took his arm away from her and adjusted his hat. “I’m sure you are, but I’m not buying what you’re selling. Not tonight.”
He turned, his heel meeting a creak in the floorboard. “Think I don’t know who you are, stranger? Think we’re nothin’ but a bunch of bumpkins out here?” He paused. “Ain’t no other man in this part of the territory got a bullet hole through the brim of his hat like that. Wouldn’t want Sheriff Barnes to know you’re planning to stick around here.”
Well, he could cross Silver Creek off his list of places to accept work. Maybe he oughta just head up north, find a mine in Nevada and just break his back. Fame (or infamy) had never suited him. He held out his hand. “Okay, Strawberry.”
She accepted, following him up the stairs round back of the saloon and up to the second floor where his room was. He tossed his hat on the bed, and she was already unpinning her hair. “None of that,” he told her. “You aren’t staying long.”
Her smile was like a devil, one of the sirens luring an ancient sailor to his doom. “Suit yourself, darlin’, I won’t tell anyone you came through, and Mr. Randal won’t either.” She moved her hands up and down his chest, fingers catching on his suspenders. He pushed her down, his own hand twisting in the dyed red curls until she was kneeling.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
She reached for the top button of his trousers. “Don’t I just?”
--------
The sounds of a hammer meeting steel rang far beyond the structure of the rickety building on the edge of town that looked like it had seen better days. It was hot, and the bugs were swarming, and Sho swatted them away unconsciously with his hand as he walked across the pebble-strewn street. The lack of rain was making everything all the more dusty, and he'd never be able to get it out of his clothes again; not that it mattered, really, because he never planned on going back to Boston, and people 'round Rapid Springs were used to dirt embedded in their fabrics. It was just another thing he hadn't quite gotten used to yet.
The heat was driving most of the civilians inside, but if the rhythmic pounding noises were any indication, the blacksmith was still hard at work under the canopy of his shoddy roof. Sho paused for a moment, and then rapped his knuckles against the beam at the side of the structure. The blacksmith's shop didn't have much by way of four walls- it was largely open, to allow better air circulation, but he still felt odd entering without permission. Call it old-fashioned, but it was a protocol engrained in his blood.
There was a small crash, and a thud, like something heavy meeting dirt.
"Here!" came the call in response, and Sho stepped over the bounds. It was hot within, even with the airflow, and the oppressive heat pounded him in the face. There was a whinny from a horse, and a snort, followed by several clodding hooves against the floor.
The blacksmith was bent over the horse's left back leg, fingers resting on the bulbs just above the heels.
"Can I help?" Sho asked, hands on his hips.
"Know how to shoe a horse?" came the response.
"No," Sho admitted.
"Then you can't help, sheriff, sorry." It was accompanied by a smile, so Sho knew it wasn't meant to be derogatory, but he still felt a bit awkward standing off to the side watching the man at work. He was never quite sure how he should act or feel around Aiba- as deputy, the blacksmith really should have been promoted after the previous sheriff's death. Why he hadn't been, Sho didn't wholly know- nor did he know why he had been summoned when there had been an alternative within Rapid Springs already.
But Aiba had never seemed angered by the look-over, and he'd never treated Sho with anything other than cheerful respect, so Sho imagined the majority of the tension was of his own internal creation.
The blacksmith glanced over at him again, nodding and gesturing towards a stack of tools near the embers.
"Hand me the rasp?" he asked.
Sho dug through the tools until he came across what he assumed to be the correct one, and set it in Aiba's waiting hand. He watched as the man smoothed down the edge of the hoof where it met the metal of the shoe with easy precision, and then stepped back when Aiba stood again, dusting his palms off on his apron.
"Did you need something?" he asked, in a way that was neither accusing nor suspicious; Aiba had a way of speaking that tended to bring ease, like he had no demands of other people. Sho had really never met anyone as automatically trusting as the blacksmith, especially back home, where corruption seemed to be everywhere, but Aiba floated through Rapid Springs with a smile and the good graces of nearly everyone else living there.
"Just thought I would check in," Sho said.
"Always vigilant," Aiba laughed, and moved to the forge again.
"Figure they're paying me to do something 'round here, right?" Sho agreed, with a smirk. He sat on one of the crates a little off to the side of the fire, so the heat wasn't blowing straight into his face. Watching Aiba work was interesting- sometimes the man would just stop in the middle of something, as if struck by a genius idea, and would go off and tinker with something else for awhile instead. There seemed to be very little rhyme or reason to his workings, and his unpredictability made observing him all the more amusing.
"For what it's worth," Aiba called, over his shoulder, "I think you're doing a good job."
The compliment pleased him more than he thought it would.
"Thank you," he answered, touched. "I- well, I'm trying."
"Out here, that's usually all that counts," Aiba laughed. He grabbed a large poker and stuck it in the embers, wiggling them around until the bright spots of orange flared up brighter and made popping noises.
"I don't think Ninomiya likes me very much," Sho mused, after a little while of watching the blacksmith continue working on melding something out of iron over the heat. He bit his bottom lip, examining the dirt permanantly encrusted between his fingernails.
"Ninomiya doesn't really like anyone," the other man replied. He wheezed a bit when the smoke got particularly thick around his form, waving it away.
"Seems an odd profession for someone who doesn't like people," Sho said.
"Well-" Aiba started, and then stopped, all movement in his form stilling. There was a long moment of quiet when it seemed like he was going to say something, but in the end, he just smiled a bit and shook his head in Sho's direction, resuming his ministrations to the tools over the fire. "Mmm."
It was an affirmation, but a dismissive one, and still feeling a bit out of place, Sho didn't want to push it. He hoisted himself up to his feet again, sticking his hands in his pockets. His thumb brushed across his gun holster, and it made him feel a bit better- more secure, anyway, and that was worth a lot past the Mississippi.
"Anyway," Sho said, without anything better to insert into the tension, "I think I'll go see what Doc Ogura is up to, then."
"Come back if you need any help with holdin' up laws, okay?" Aiba replied.
"Got it," Sho said, with a nod. "Thanks."
He left the blacksmith working over the embers, and trudged back into the midday sun.
-------
His register was filling, and soon he’d have to move some of the cash to his safe in his back office. He was nearly out of booze, but Ohno had been kind enough to donate from his own stores. It helped when your best friend owned the only general store within ten miles.
Nino never had great nights because someone always let loose their stomach contents on his freshly scrubbed floorboards or tried to pass off a fake coin or two, but at the very least he could count this as a good night. A group of about twenty men had arrived at half past nine, and it was past midnight now. Every single one of his girls was occupied in the rooms upstairs while down here, there were clouds of cigar smoke, raucous laughter and the sound of poker chips clinking on wood.
“Hey!” one of the inebriated ruffians called. “Round over here!”
“Of course,” he said, reaching for the brandy. The boss’ right hand man, Mendoza, was at that table, and as one of the organization’s higher ups, he liked to play at respectability. Which was fine by Nino since the brandy was brought in all the way from Cincinnati and he charged three times its worth due to its scarcity out west.
He filled the glasses and brought the tray over. Mendoza gave him a hearty slap on the back when he’d set the glasses down. “You’re alright, Ninomiya, you’re alright.”
“More cigars, gentlemen?”
“Slim’s liable to burn this place to ashes the way he’s downing the juice tonight,” one of the gang at the table chuckled.
Mendoza moved his hand to Nino’s wrist, an iron grip that would be threatening if he and the Sandburg Boys didn’t get on so well. “I ever tell you I’m descended from the Aztecs and the Toltecs and the Mayas?”
The others at Mendoza’s table laughed, slapping cards down or upping the ante. “Why, I don’t believe you have Mr. Mendoza.” He had. Multiple times, and in various states of sobriety. Mendoza was from Juarez and he fancied himself a Mexican aristocrat, although anyone who saw his swaggering walk or the missing eye tooth in his smile would know he was from humbler stock. But Nino played along. It was all a game really. The whole frontier, it was all one big joke of a game.
“Yes, sir,” Mendoza went on as Nino slyly snuck a few bills from his shirt sleeve and into Mendoza’s hand. “My great great granddaddy was a Mayan chief and his wife was an Aztec princess. My blood is 100 percent pure native. Everything from the tip of Argentina to Califor-nye-ay is Mendoza land.”
“You don’t say.” Mendoza was Mexican, of Spanish stock. If there was any Indian blood in him, his skin wasn’t dark enough to show it.
“I do say, Ninomiya, I do say.” Mendoza released him, shoving the previously concealed bills roughly into the pocket of his trousers. “Thank you kindly for hosting this fine event. Rapid Springs is on the up and up, I’m sure, with a shrewd businessman keeping things on the level.”
He nodded, excusing himself back to the bar to set up another round for a different table. As he reached under the bar for another bottle of whiskey for Dakota Jack’s table, he let his fingers brush the barrel of the shotgun strapped underneath. Fortunes could change at any time, and he didn’t need unruly bandits tearing up his establishment. As he poured another batch of drinks, May came hopping down the steps, still pulling her dress back down.
Nino felt her stick a wad of bills in his back pocket before wrapping her arms around his waist. “How we doing tonight?” she asked, gin and the smell of another man coming from her mouth.
“You gotta stop having this notion that there’s a we involved here, May,” he reprimanded her, elbowing the whore away from him. “This is my saloon, my business, and don’t you forget it.”
“Maybe you just need a drink.”
He grabbed her wrist tight and pulled her close. None of the bar patrons paid any attention. “Maybe you could find another place to spread ‘em.”
May shut up right quick, and he gave her a tap on the behind. “Mendoza’s table.” She went over and shoved her bosom right up in Mendoza’s face. Good girl. He distributed more drinks and headed back to wipe the counter down when the doors squeaked and the all too familiar and all too unwelcome sound of the sheriff’s boots met his floor.
“Evening, Mr. Ninomiya,” Sakurai said with that usual arrogance, the silver spoon he was born with shoved straight up his ass. “I see you’ve got quite a crowd tonight.” As the sheriff leaned against the bar, Nino ignored him, setting up some fresh glasses. This was not going to end well, and he caught May’s eye. She got off of Mendoza’s lap and headed for the back, leaving the gang man unsatisfied.
“Just another Saturday, Sheriff.”
Sakurai tapped the counter with his thumb. “Was over by Pastor White’s for the evening meal. His wife made a stew I’ll never forget.”
“That a fact?” Nino could immediately tell that the noise in the saloon had gone from boisterous to a cemetery as soon as the man with the star waltzed on in.
“And Pastor White was kind enough to give me a summary of tomorrow’s…” He paused for what he probably imagined was dramatic purposes, looking at the clock in the corner by the piano. “I’m sorry, I mean today’s sermon. On the evils of gambling, alcohol, whoring, all that business.”
Nino saw some of the men start gathering their chips and putting out their cigars. “Pastor White’s got a lot of fire and brimstone.”
“That he does,” the sheriff muttered. “That he does.”
He watched Mendoza snap his fingers and half the group was out the swinging doors before Nino could call them back. This bastard, this green, wet behind the ears Yankee was playing big man in town just because he bought himself a star from the territorial government. And it was going to leave Ninomiya in the poor house.
“Can I get you something, sheriff?”
Sho watched the last of the men depart, some of them half tumbling down the steps, pulling their trousers back up. “No, I’m so full I could pass out right here. I was just wondering what all the hubbub was over here. Since I was walking home from Pastor White’s, you know.”
“Right.”
The sheriff gave him that perfect smile, fixed real pretty like by one of them dentists back east. “Will I see you in church tomorrow, Mr. Ninomiya?”
“If I can make it,” he replied through gritted teeth.
“Hope you can. It should be a rousing sermon.” With that, without saying word one to any of the saloon’s customers, Sheriff Sakurai tipped his hat and departed with a bounce in his step.
As soon as the sheriff was clear of his property, Nino grabbed a glass from the counter and smashed it against the wall.