Maeve had been working at the Saloon for longer than she would have liked. It isn’t that she didn’t like the town, on the contrary. At first glance Brogden was just another hovel in a long line of shit holes leading from civilization to wilderness, but it had grown on her. There was something about this place that attracted some *interesting* individuals, and it definitely wasn’t dull. No, she was just disappointed that she had yet to attain what she came here for. She was thinking about all of this, her elbows leaned against the bar with a practiced smile on her youthful face that denoted a naivety uncommon to these parts.
She blew a somewhat curled tendril away from her face as a bottle and a couple of glasses were slid her way. She wrapped her fingers around the neck of the tequila and grabbed the glasses. She turned towards the patrons, just noticing how busy they were becoming. Other than a quick expanding of her eyes she seemed unfazed by the bustle and slipped between the roughians with a skilled bounce in her step. She dodged a chair that was swung haphazardly by a drunk while quickly glancing at what cards she could see from the poker table while turning her hip out to dodge an excited arm.
“Maeve! Maeve!” She could hear Tom beckoning from behind and turned to offer him a wink before continuing on her route. “One minute darlin’,” she called back to him over her shoulder. Her voice was honey sweet and almost like a song as it floated through the noise. She heard a commotion starting outside and glanced towards the window. There was definitely something brewing. She deposited the whiskey and glasses to a table of gruff men who were laughing about something. Maeve slipped her little fingers around the closest man’s lit cigarette and traded him a kiss on the cheek and an endearing squeeze of his shoulder. The man may have blushed a little, but it was hard to tell beneath his sun kissed skin.
Her hips rocked as she walked towards the window, pressing the cigarette between her lips and taking an inhale. She could make out the Sheriff now, and some others. Was that John Henley? She curled back the curtains and nestled against the window frame, dragging once again from the cigarette as she watched the events transpire outside. It was John Henley, but there seemed to be a mob, perfect. Her first honest smile of the day crossed over those lips. She had little care for the Indian they were parading about and simply saw this for what it was, a good old lynch mob. She wasn’t blind to the plights of the disenfranchised. She was Irish for fuck’s sake, but what could she do? Enjoy the chaos. This would be the second shooting today. Yes, Brogden was growing on her.
When she watched John Henley, her John, get shot a small gasp escaped her and she leaned her weight against the window. Not a single person seemed willing to mourn the man in the street, but for one brief moment a grave expression crossed over her features. Under her breath, in a voice distinctly crueler than the one heard earlier came a, “Son of a bitch.” She tossed the cigarette to the floor and crushed it between her heel of her boot.
She didn’t really care about John, not personally, but her employers cared about something in his possession. She’d been working on him for weeks, trying to get him to let it slip where it hid the money. Her next plan of action had been to threaten his family, but, now…
“Maeve!” This time it wasn’t Tom, but her boss calling her out of her dark daze. She forced that smile back onto her lips and turned back towards the bar, bouncing that way as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Her mind on the other hand was flickering through ideas like a Queen through jewels. One of them might work. She could get close to his friends, his family? There was a mention of a daughter. Should she start watching immediately to see if anyone slips out of town? She’d already come to the conclusion that he had buried the money somewhere to the South West. Who were John’s best friends?
“The gentleman in the booth,” the tender slid a drink towards her across the bar and gestured to Mark Twain. She could see some ancient bartender’s guide cracked open and a slight furrow on her boss’s brow and she shot him a questioning look. He shrugged. “Vodka Martini? I gave him a beer with a shot of whiskey in it. Shaken, not stirred.” He smiled a little at this, obviously proud of himself. Honestly, she wasn’t sure what a Martini was either, and they didn’t stock vodka, so she returned his shrug and grabbed the foamy drink, heading towards the man in the booth.
It wasn’t until she was about three steps away that she realized the man sitting across him was dead. Seriously? John Henley was dead and now there was a dead guy here? She’d thought she’d heard a shot earlier, but she had assumed it was some weird echo or something. 3 dead today. Her step didn’t hitch a bit as she sidled up to the table and stuck a thumb towards the dead guy. “Your friend seems a little beat,” she said with a sweet giggle, poking his shoulder for effect. She set the interesting drink down in front of him, leaning in and showing just enough cleavage as she bent and placed a delicate hand on his shoulder, nothing threatening. Her eyes were focused on his own and they seemed so sweet, except for a quick flash of what could have been a stern threat. It was so brief it was hard to tell for sure if it really happened. “You should take him somewhere else.” She stood back up and released his shoulder all the while thinking: if I have to clean that shit up...
Fallenreaper
Izurich
Ti
