This chapter isn't perfect, but I could really use some feedback, so I think I'll post it now and patch up the weak spots later.
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When Tex returned to the common area after placating her bladder, she found that Wendell had swapped his violin for a Spanish guitar. It was striking, with a bone-white body, scarlet tuning pegs, and a rose-encrusted sugar skull painted on the base. He strummed it feverishly, pearls of sweat shining on his brow. Couples do-si-doed like imps in front of him.
The hell? How many cursed instruments does this man have? she thought.
Tex wanted no part of it. She wandered off in the direction of the tables. It had been some time since she’d parted ways with Mr. Neutron, and the caffeine trough seemed like a logical place to chance upon him now. Her hunch paid off. She discovered him sitting beside a stack of dirty cups, glowering at the dance floor like a cartoon villain. She flopped down next to him.
“What crawled up your ass and died?” she asked.
He stuck up his nose and crossed his arms. “None of your business, Vortex. Go away.”
“Ehh. I just sat down.”
“So? Get up again.”
She yawned and glanced over at the crowd of revelers. It did not take her long to identify the source of his consternation. At the far end of the procession, she spotted Betty, smiling and chatting as she threaded through the line.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
“Are you pissy because the church mouse is dancing with someone else?” she asked.
When he didn’t answer, she leaned over and scrutinized his face. He responded by angling even further away, until he was nearly falling out of his chair.
“Oh, for the love of – you are, aren’t you? God, that is just sad.”
“She’s dancing with Butch!” he burst out, throwing his hands in the air. “Butch! Of all the men in town to pick. I’d be happy for her if she was up there with Ike, or Wendell, or…anyone else, really, but Butch? He’s done nothing but make an absolute fool of himself, day in and day out, since the moment he arrived. It’s unconscionable.”
Tex shrugged, picking at her teeth. “I’m sure she’s just trying to ‘save a wayward soul’, or some such nonsense.”
“Fat chance. Betty never dances – at least, not with any of the men. She says it's 'immoral' for a married woman to be dancing with someone other than her husband.”
“Wow,” drawled Tex. “Self-righteous, and a Jeremiah. You sure know how to pick ‘em, Sheriff.”
He glared at her. “What would you know? It’s not like you’re an authority on the subject of dancing etiquette.”
“Pfft. And you are?”
“More than you,” he shot back.
Tex might have been angry with him, had he not looked so ridiculous sitting there, scowling like a curmudgeon. Hot temper or no, in the face of rank absurdity, fury lost its bite. She bumped her shoulder against his.
“I just did the Varsouvienne,” she bragged.
He rotated to face her. “Miss Folfax?”
“Mm-hmm. It’s too bad you missed it. We couldn’t decide which one of us was supposed to be the man, and then she regaled me with the origin story of her sapphire ring.”
“The poop ring?”
Vindication.
“The Varsouvienne’s all right,” he continued. “A little too stilted for my tastes, but all right. Trouble is, it reminds me of all those tedious society dances I attended back in Boston.”
“Ah, yes,” she shot back sarcastically, “that most dreadful of events: a bunch of hoity-toity women lining up to curtsy for you.”
He made a face. “The women were the worst part. All that fawning, and flattery. Not a single person there knew how to be sincere. I was a walking, talking diamond ring to be obtained by any means, and I detested every minute of it.”
“Hmm.” Tex examined her nails. “It’s a shame those women never got to know you. I think they would have been entranced by your…eloquent carpentry lessons.”
“Oh, shut up.”
She bumped him a second time, grinning, and he took off his hat and whacked her with it.
“Sheriff!” she cried, feigning outrage. “That’s my woodworkin’ arm!”
He jumped to his feet, brandishing his hat, and Tex knew she was in trouble. Quick as a flash, she dove out of range.
“Surely there’s at least one dance you enjoy,” she said, from her new seat on the ground. He darted toward her, and she dodged left, circling round the chair.
“Come here!” he shouted.
“The waltz?” she suggested. He tried to smack her again. “The grand march?” He took another swipe.
She reversed directions, and he tried to grab her by the coat. He missed by an inch. He stumbled, and she threw her body toward him and rolled across his back. Nimble as a cat, she was already running when her feet hit the ground on the other side. She took off into the dark.
“Catch me if you can!” she called.
“You are such an asshole!” he laughed, and gave chase.
As the firelight receded, Tex reduced her speed, and Mr. Neutron caught up to her. He tugged her ponytail, and she rewarded him with a delighted squeak. The pair matched strides beneath the canopy of starlight. Out here, the universe was boundless – anything might happen. The outlaw gazed up at the sky, luxuriating in the tranquil air.
They chatted amiably, rehashing the day’s events as they meandered. Each took solace in the other’s company: his bad mood dissipated, and her fretful mania began to ebb away. She kicked a pebble at him, and he nudged it back; jokes and gibes flowed freely. The night had lost its fangs.
Eventually, discussion turned to Bolbi’s injury, and Tex shared what she’d learned about Ignishka’s medical credentials. The revelation stopped the Sheriff in his tracks.
“You actually got her to speak to you?” He was gobsmacked. “Are you a sorcerer? I've had Elke offer every enticement, every assurance – Ignishka still won’t answer any of my questions. She hates me.”
His failure only sweetened her triumph. “It’s because I’m such a people person,” she gloated, leaning against his chest. “My mystique…my allure…they make me impossible to resist. My fact-finding prowess is unparalleled.”
He looped an arm around her waist, and it felt like such a natural part of the conversation that Tex barely even noticed.
“Unparalleled…and probably illegal,” he muttered.
“So arrest me, Sheriff,” she vamped. “I’m completely helpless.”
“Actually…I think I’d like to join you in your lawlessness. I want results, and your approach appears to yield them.”
She beamed up at him. “Truly?”
“Maybe,” he shrugged. “Who knows? I can’t be trusted to tell the truth anymore, now that I’m a villain.”
“Finally. At long last, my diabolical plans have come to fruition – let me savor your corruption like the fine wine that it is.”
He put his other arm around her, and she turned to fully face him. “Don’t give yourself too much credit,” he said. “Perhaps I’ve just grown tired of this endless, suffocating propriety. Perhaps the low road is becoming increasingly appealing.”
“How low are we talkin’?”
“Subterranean.”
“Heh heh,” she exulted, playing with his lapels.
He looked her over. “You know,” he remarked, “there is one dance I enjoy. Since you asked.”
“Oh?”
“Sheen taught it to us,” he continued. “Last summer, at Ike’s party. Something he picked up in Mexico – the Remolino de Polvo. The Dust Devil.”
“Oooh. Sounds daring.”
“It is. It’s the antithesis of all those pompous, dreary shuffle-steps my parents forced upon me.”
“Can you show it to me?”
He dithered for a second. “Well…if I’m being completely honest, I was exceedingly drunk when I learned it, so I can’t remember all of the steps precisely. But I’ve retained the gist of it, if you’re interested.”
“So you have no idea what you’re doing,” she said.
“Not true. Wrap your arms around my neck.”
Tex blinked. “What?”
“That’s how it starts. Wrap your arms around my neck. And do it like you mean it, or this won’t be any fun.”
She squinted at him suspiciously. “I don’t know…”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake…your hands are already on my chest. Just move them upward.”
“Fine,” she relented. “Now what?”
He slid his palms down her sides, shifting his grip from her waist to her hips. She almost jumped.
“Whoa,” she blurted. “That is very close to…the revolvers.”
“Stop being so dramatic. Let me try to remember how this goes. It’s tricky without the proper music.”
Tex clung to him distractedly while he ruminated. A tiny sun burned within him; it warmed her cool skin.
“So we go back and forth,” he muttered to himself. “One-two-three, pause, five-six-seven, pause. And there are four counts of eight in a row...”
“Yawn,” she said. “Can we get a move on, please? I don’t care if it’s perfect – just improvise the parts you can’t recall.”
“All right,” he warned, “but it’s not going to be very good.” He tapped her right foot with his left. “Ready?”
He stepped forward, and she automatically stepped back, retreating from his abrupt advance. He took another step forward, then another. She dodged away as he pressed toward her, and after several long strides, he paused. Tex glanced at the ground, trying to work out what he was doing with his feet. Before she could regain her equilibrium, he reversed direction. He backtracked, hauling her along in his wake, and she grabbed her hat to keep it from falling off.
“Slow down,” she urged. “I can’t see a damn thing, and you’re dragging me all over.”
“Forget your eyes. Pay attention to my body.”
She took his advice. After a series of halting, uneven paces, they got a sense for each other’s rhythm, and things started falling into place. He was measured and steady, she was fleet-footed and evasive. When he advanced, she withdrew; when he retreated, she pursued. Back and forth, push and pull. Once she understood the dynamic, it was easy to follow his lead.
“There you go!” he encouraged. “You’re getting the hang of it. Back-two-three. Now add some oscillation to your hips!”
Tex looked down at his pelvis, absolutely shocked. It took a moment for the truth to register.
My God, she realized. Is this…a scoundrel’s dance?
“What are you doing?” she burst out.
“Dancing, Vortex,” he said calmly. “I move my feet, and you move yours. Shall we review any other basic concepts?”
She was too stunned to argue with him. Where would she even begin?
“Isn’t this a bit…scandalous for you, Sheriff?” she hinted, as his leg brushed against hers. “I mean, there’s a lot of hip-twisting happening right now.”
“It’s not scandalous. It just comes from a different culture, with different proscriptions governing deportment. If Sheen were here, he’d tell you all about it.”
“Right…because Sheen’s a reliable source of information on the subject of ‘deportment’.”
“You’re being close-minded,” he huffed. “The Remolino de Polvo is perfectly respectable. It’s all the rage in The Port of Mazatlán.”
I’m sure it is, she thought. In the brothels. Whatever…I guess we’re doing this.
“Uh-huh,” she drawled, as her hips swayed in time with his. “So what you’re saying is, you’re not a shameless lech – you’re just a man of culture.”
“Exactly. Culture, sophistication, intelligence…”
“Modesty,” she added.
“Modesty. Now you’re getting it. Come on, Vortex...faster!”
He stepped away and twirled her, then yanked her back, and Tex couldn’t help it – she laughed. How could she not? Here they were, on the edge of the world, treating this racy little number like it was a genteel promenade. It didn’t matter who he was, or who she was, or what Sword of Damocles hung above their heads. The night was spinning – fire and music and sweat and pumping blood, all around her, all within her.
“I have to admit,” she said, adjusting her grip, “I did not think you had this in you. You continue to surprise me.”
“What’s this?” He sniffed the air. “Do I detect the scent of…praise wafting in my direction?”
She sighed. “Here we go.”
“Keep the compliments coming, my sweet,” he exhorted. “Every time you flatter me, I siphon away a little more of your power. Soon I’ll be unstoppable.”
“Why did I open my big mouth? Why?”
“Don’t be like that. Here, I’ll return the favor: now that you’ve deloused yourself, you’re surprisingly easy on the eyes.”
Tex couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you flirting with me?”
“No. I’m offering positive reinforcement. An experiment, aimed at modifying your behavior, so you’ll continue bathing regularly.”
She shook her head. “Only you could turn a compliment into an insult with such weaponized efficiency.”
“Many talents,” he reiterated. “Your turn.”
“My turn?”
He nudged her slightly. “Your turn. Lay one on me.”
“Fine,” she puffed. “How about this: you’re a serviceable teacher, when you aren’t gargling your foot. I learned a lot today.”
“I could say the same about you.”
He spun her. When they came together again, he slowed their pace, and she effortlessly flowed into the new rhythm.
“That doesn’t count as yours,” she said. “Give me a new one.”
“Okay.” He paused, mulling it over. “You remind me of a cat.”
“What?” she protested. “How is that a compliment? You’re a dog person.”
“Not true. I like both kinds of pets.”
This rankled her, and she tried to wriggle away from him, but he held her fast.
“Ah. So that’s what I am to you,” she struggled. “A pet. More insults.”
“Not so,” he insisted, as he fought to pull her closer. “You’re more like…a feral cat that showed up on my doorstep. I figure, if I keep feeding you scraps, you’re bound to warm up to me eventually. You might even let me scratch you behind the ears.”
Tex’s hair stood on end. She stopped battling him.
“I don’t know,” she evaded. “Food is only so tempting, and I have very sharp claws.”
“Perhaps some toys, then,” he offered. “Let’s see: a ball of yarn. A legal tome for you to shred. A frankly irresponsible quantity of catnip.”
Tex laughed. “A decent start,” she said, “but still not good enough.”
“All right. How about this: boxes. All of them.”
“............You have my attention. Go on.”
He gave her another spin. “You can have the run of the house,” he continued. “The rug in front of the fireplace is yours, naturally. The desk…the windowsill…the rocking chair, too, whenever I’m not using it.”
Tex warmed to the theme.
“Maybe I’ll sit on your lap,” she flirted. “In the evenings, when it’s just the two of us.”
He smirked. “Maybe you will.”
The hair at the nape of his neck was feather-soft. Without meaning to, she began to play with it. He bumped up against her.
“Where will I sleep?” she asked him coyly. “Somewhere cozy, I hope…say, at the foot of your bed?”
“Nope. Cat basket on the floor. You’re not allowed on the bed; you’ll shed all over the comforter.”
“What?!” she cried, incensed.
He pretended to reconsider. “Unless, of course, you’re one of those hairless cats…want me to check and find out?”
She almost shoved him. He laughed at her.
“I don’t want to be a cat anymore,” she pouted.
“Then what do you want to be, Deputy? The choice is up to you.”
I want to be yours, she thought.
The intrusive impulse shocked Tex so thoroughly that she halted mid-step, and he blundered into her. It did not help matters.
“Crisis of conscience, Vortex?” he inquired. “Shall I provide you with some counsel?”
“No, I…I think we should…” she stammered helplessly. All at once, she was under siege. The movement of his hips. The low, engaging tenor of his voice. The subtle dampness of his skin beneath her touch. They were a hair’s breadth away from something far more intimate, and she realized how easy it would be to allow him that transgression. She tried to withdraw, but he followed.
Help me, she thought, but there were no faeries left to bargain with. For better or for worse, the night belonged to her.
“It’s never too late to switch careers,” he pointed out. “You have the aptitude for it.”
Tex floundered. He reversed their direction. As he pulled her toward him, his fingers tugged at the place where her waistband met her shirt. She began to feel lightheaded.
“I think we should stop,” she said.
He trotted to a halt, and so did she. They were almost chest-to-chest on a small ridge.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, panting.
She took a second to compose herself, and as soon as she did, she regretted adjourning prematurely. She seized on the first lie she could muster.
“Pebble in my boot. Hold on a second.”
It was a dubious excuse, but he accepted it. She freed herself from his embrace and fished around for the nonexistent rock. When she straightened, the moonlight fell upon them both, and she caught him looking at her in a way that both thrilled and terrified her. It dawned on Tex how spectacularly careless she had been. Boundary after boundary had been crossed, and she had not even seen it.
“Ready for another round?” He offered her his hand.
Tex could not take back her error, nor could she intuit the scope of his intentions. All she could do was rise to meet the moment, now that it was here, and she refused to sully herself with cowardice. She strode toward him, and he confidently pulled her back into his arms. The lion’s den was warm, and terribly inviting.
“I think I remembered more of the steps,” he told her. “Some criss-crosses, and a turning sequence.”
She perused his face. It would be foolish to lie to herself by pretending that he was unappealing. He was handsome enough, in his way, but that wasn’t what enticed her. It was the paradox that he presented. He was familiar; he was safe. He was also neither of those things.
All my money for your thoughts, she mused.
“Can I improvise a little?” she asked.
“I don’t see why not. But mind your feet – I’ll be adding in more spins.”
He nudged her backward, and she wordlessly began her retreat. Again, they found their rhythm easily. He guided her through the new steps – they covered much more ground this time. She whirled, he attended her. Their soles skidded on the increasingly rough terrain; clouds spiraled underfoot and overhead. Tex was miles past the point of exhaustion, but she pressed on anyway, diving headlong into recklessness.
“Hey now,” he protested, as she began to wrestle with him for control, “don’t start that. I can’t do the Remolino de Polvo in reverse.”
“I can. Sounds like a skill issue.”
“Just dance the part you’re meant to dance, Vortex. It’s bad form to steal the lead.”
“So fight me for it, lawman,” she goaded.
His fingers tightened around her swaying hips. “You’re always like this,” he complained. “You’re the most incorrigible person I’ve ever met.”
“So why do you keep grinding up against me, then? Don’t act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”
He considered. “To impress you,” he suggested.
“Unlikely,” she shot back. “Try again.”
“Because you're dangerous,” he said, and that was probably the truth.
“Is that what you’re getting out of this?” she accused. “Some kind of cheap thrill?”
“What? No. What on earth gave you that idea?”
Bitterness filled her. “You just admitted it.”
“No I didn’t!”
“A bit of fun with the soiled dove away from prying eyes – that’s all men ever want from me.”
“Don’t you dare lump me in with those degenerates!” He spun her forcefully, moved, and spun her again. Gravel went flying. “That kind of callousness disgusts me. Point me toward anyone who treats you like that, and I’ll string them up by their ankles.”
It took her a second to regain her balance. I’ve insulted him grievously, she thought. Why do I keep insulting him?
“I don’t need you to take care of me,” she bristled, even though she yearned for him to shield her.
He rolled his eyes and dragged her closer. “Ugh. For the love of God, woman, stop trying to pick a fight with me. I’m not going to let you push me away.”
Tex felt like she was drowning in the mire of her psyche. In these uncharted waters, warring leviathans battled for dominance: desire, hope, insecurity, fear. His words offered clarity, but they also came too late to forestall her downward spiral. The urge to sabotage their shared connection was almost overwhelming.
Spurn him, screamed fear. Strike first, so he can’t strike at all.
The outlaw gritted her teeth to keep from lashing out. It was no small task to master such a ruinous compulsion, and she could not devote her full attention to it. Things were happening too quickly for her to process. She had to slow the onslaught. She disengaged and circled around him.
“What do you mean by ‘dangerous’?” she asked. She could not let it go.
“A poor choice of words. I meant to flatter you, not denigrate you. I’m sorry if I caused offense.”
Her thoughts careened in a dozen different directions. Was it just a thoughtless comment, then? She could not trust her own judgment.
“Do you have a taste for danger, Sheriff? For dangerous women?”
She returned to his embrace, and his palm slipped onto the small of her back. It galled her that he could touch her with such casual insouciance.
What does he want from me? she thought. The ambiguity was agonizing.
“I Plead the Fifth,” he said.
Tex lost control, however briefly; she looked down at his body as they moved. It was a grave mistake. She imagined him pushing her down onto the bed, then climbing on top of her – his mouth on her neck, his hands in her hair, her own startled breathlessness. She would accept him, naturally. Even if he could never love her.
She slammed her eyes shut. It was an ugly truth to learn about herself – that she would consent to exploitation, if it supplied the illusion of care. No sooner had she come to this conclusion than another, likelier outcome presented itself: outright rejection. It occurred to her in a flash of paranoia that if she did not affirm her partiality, he might cut his losses and abandon her. She all but threw herself at him.
“Whoa,” he exclaimed, as she engineered multiple collisions. “Hello. Has, uh…has the prospect of ‘culture’ developed some appeal?”
“You’re going straight to hell, I hope you know that.”
“Guess I’ll see you there,” he retorted. “Shall I look for you in the tar pits when I arrive?”
She twirled provocatively. “As if I’d be confined to the lowly reaches. By the time you make it yonder, I’ll be sitting on the throne, commanding the infernal legions.”
“Oh, will you, now?” he grinned. “And, uh…what will you be wearing?”
“Not much. Red leather boots...a smattering of lace...a corset made from human bones.”
He started cracking up. “Stop,” he joked. “You’ll make me swoon.”
Let’s see you look at Betty now, she thought.
"What's your stance on cronyism?" he inquired, as she ogled him openly. "Will I get special privileges? I am a favorite of yours, after all."
Their legs touched. “If you please me,” she told him.
“And how can I please you, oh mighty Queen of Perdition?”
I want wrath, and avarice, and lust. Give them to me – no apologies, no remorse.
“Fan me,” she said. “With one of those oversized palmetto leaves. And feed me grapes.”
“Can I feed you with a slingshot? I don’t want to get too close.”
She scoffed. “Not a chance. Either you cram them into my shark-toothed maw, or it’s back to the pits with you.”
He laughed; Tex didn’t. Their banter restored some semblance of normalcy, but it could not quell the tempest raging inside her. She felt profoundly vulnerable every time he touched her, yet she continued to hack away at her own boundaries.
“Hey,” he prompted. “Are you okay? Slow down.”
The moon leered down at them; rocks, brambles, and shallow furrows all conspired to end their bacchanalia. They coursed back and forth, back and forth, responding to each other’s every movement. A cloud blotted out the light. Now, he was the center of a wheel, and she was a selkie, a succubus, a huntress in a faerie ring. Now, he was –
Tex’s heel landed in a divot, and she pitched backward, sky wheeling overhead. Had she been alone, she could have salvaged things; she had uncanny reflexes, and she would have twisted fast enough to spare herself real injury. The Sheriff didn’t know this. He acted reflexively, throwing himself forward to catch her. His fingers missed the collar of her shirt, and instead, he snagged the bandana that she wore around her neck. Her head snapped back with a sickening crunch, and she gasped in pain as the noose tightened. Time slowed to a crawl.
She saw him then, as her vision narrowed: he was a void, a shadow – a starless silhouette sent by providence to carry out her sentence. He was her killer. He was extinguishing the world.
“Neutron!” she pleaded, clawing at her throat. “You’re…choking…me!”
He released his grip immediately, and Tex crashed to the ground. She thrashed around like a fish, then rolled over and propped herself up on her hands, gasping for breath. He fell to his knees beside her.
“Jesus, Vortex, I’m sorry!” he cried.
She tried to right herself, but she was coughing violently. Tiny flecks of light swam in front of her like fireflies. The bandana. She tore at the fabric, fingers blindly searching for the knot.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop!”
He tried to pull her hands away from her neck, and she fought him like a wild thing, kicking and scratching. He was going to kill her. He was going to –
The Sheriff threw his arms around her, and she stopped struggling. His breathing rose, and fell, rose, and fell, and slowly, she came back to herself. She was shaking like a leaf, she realized, and tears – unfamiliar after so long – stung the corners of her eyes. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. What was happening to her?
“Hey,” he soothed. “You’re okay. Shh. I’m not going to hurt you.”
He pulled her close, knees scuffing on the gravel, and her breathing slowed. Gradually, she was able to take stock of things. It was not the first time that she’d been strangled; she had endured far worse attacks from both enemies and colleagues, and she’d made them pay for it. Tex walked away from every altercation with blood on her lip, and even more on her knuckles. It was nothing. Sometimes, she even liked it.
But this was different.
To think that he could hurt her, that he could be the one to snuff her out, after what they’d just been doing – there were no words for it. It was a nameless, black terror; a swirling morass that was far worse than any hellfire her imagination could produce. It made her want to curl into a ball.
“...going to untie it. All right?”
The Sheriff’s voice….somewhere.
“Is that okay?”
Tex nodded, and she felt the roughness of his shirt against her cheek. He pulled back just far enough to get a better look, and his fingers tickled as he worked upon the knot. It occurred to her, distantly, that this was all rather embarrassing.
“I’ve almost got it,” he murmured. “Just a second more…”
The fabric started moving, and after a pause, he slid the bandana off her neck. She clasped a hand around her throat. She was going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, sounding helpless. “It was an accident.”
Tex sighed. Sniffling, she scooched back and sat up on her own, and they faced each other, resting cross-legged on the dirt.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she told him.
In the distance, a coyote howled, and there were other sounds, too – sounds that belonged to some other night. Music. Laughter. Voices.
“Tex…” he began. “What was done to you?”
She rubbed her nose. “Nothing I haven’t done to someone else.”
They fell silent. Tex could feel him staring at her, but it was too dark to make out his expression. It didn’t matter, really – the moon was gone, and all of her emotions had gone with it. Suddenly, she felt very tired.
“Let’s get you back to camp,” he said.
She allowed the Sheriff to help her to her feet. He took her arm and led her away from the expanse, back toward the music and the firelight. Maybe things would be better there. Libby was there, and Libby could fix things for her. After a short walk, the lawman eased her down into a vacant chair; it looked familiar. She gazed off into space, feeling weightless and gauzy, as he rushed off toward the dance floor. Tex was dimly aware of events going on around her – Miss Folfax and Mr. Neutron, conversing with their heads together – Mr. Neutron pointing toward her – Libby gathering up her skirts and hurrying her way.
You did this, her inner monologue derided. You let him in.
Instinct told her she ought to find a place to hide and lick her wounds, but she simply didn’t care enough to try.
“You’re such a lummox, James,” came Libby’s scolding voice. The barkeep was beside her, peering at her throat. “Help me get her up.”
“I’m fine,” the outlaw croaked. Her voice was so garbled that Libby couldn’t understand her.
They both put an arm around her and hoisted her to her feet. It was too much effort to fight them, so Tex just let them bear her weight.
“Should we take her to the cabin?” asked the Sheriff.
Mumbling.
“…I think so. A cot and table, maybe. I’m not sure what else.”
I’m right here, she thought. But was she?
They brought the outlaw up the hill, stumbling now and again on the uneven soil. When they reached the top, Libby handed her off to Mr. Neutron.
“I’d like to go to bed,” Tex murmured.
Libby fiddled with the latch, and it clicked open. Beyond, the homestead lay silent, occupied by a black abyss. The Sheriff fished around in Tex’s pocket and located her lighter.
“Here.” He passed it to the barkeep.
A second later, a flame punched through the darkness. Three faces huddled around it, jaws and noses chiseled into planes. They moved as one; their limbs were everywhere.
“Where’s the lamp?”
Scuffling. All at once, Tex couldn’t bear the feeling of the Sheriff’s arm around her, and she wrenched herself away.
“Get off of me!” she shouted.
“All right, all right.” He backed up a couple of steps, palms raised.
Tex glanced around. There wasn’t much furniture to speak of, but pressed against the far wall, she could just make out the shape of a cot with a blanket on it. She shambled over to it and collapsed.
“Go away,” she demanded, words muffled by the pillow.
“But…”
“NOW!”
A thump as the lawman tossed her lighter onto the mattress. Then the door creaked shut.
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Well that escalated (.-.)
...
I wasn't going to do a dance chapter initially because I was afraid it would come across as cheesy, but then I figured out a way to make it fucked up, and I was instantly on board again.
Poor Tex is such a mess.
HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT
- The phrase "like a cartoon villain" sounds decidedly modern, but it's actually a lot older than you might think. The use of the word cartoon to describe a series of images, usually humorous in intent, dates to 1843, when Punch magazine applied the term to satirical drawings in its pages. Political cartoons are older still. They got their start in England in the 1700s, and by the mid 1800s, major newspapers in countries all over the world featured caricatures lampooning the political villains of the day. Thomas Nast, an immigrant who came to be known as "the father of the American cartoon", was partially responsible for bringing down Boss Tweed and his infamous Tammany Hall political machine. After escaping from a NYC jail, Tweed fled to Spain, where he was re-arrested after local police recognized him as the guy from Nast's cartoons.
- The 'Remolino de Polvo' did not, in fact, exist, but I did draw inspiration from real history. You've heard of the Tango, right? The Mambo? These iconic styles derived from earlier partner dances invented in Latin America during the 1800s – the Cuban Habanero (later the Danzón), the Argentine Milonga, and the Brazilian Maxixe, to name a few. Combining aspects of European, African, and Indigenous traditions, they were an unstoppable tidal wave of titillating offensiveness. Because pelvic movements were included in these dances (whether soft sways as in the Danzón, or body-to-body grinds and leg-entanglement as in the Maxixe), the straight-laced types (and the Catholic Church) were NOT pleased. I wanted to give the impression that Sheen made up a dirty dance and then passed it off as a real thing people were doing overseas. The Port of Mazatlán is a real place, though, and it was arguably California's most important trading partner during the Gold Rush, which began in 1849.
- Literary References: The Biblical book of Daniel recounts the story of a Jewish man who served as a high-ranking official in the court of King Darius the Mede. Daniel's colleagues resented his success and favor before the King, so they hatched a plot to get rid of him. They tricked Darius into passing a 30-day decree which required all subjects to pray solely to the King. Anyone caught praying to another god or man would be fed to hungry lions. Daniel, as expected, refused to abandon his faith, and the other advisors turned him in. The law could not be changed, and the horrified King Darius (who genuinely loved Daniel) was forced to throw him into the lion's den. Luckily for our protag, God protected Daniel, and he was delivered from their claws unharmed. King Darius was like "dude, your God's AWESOME, I should totally follow Him". Then he threw the scheming advisors, along with their wives and children, into the den to be eaten instead. Old Testament God was really big on the whole "collective punishment" thing.
Vocab:
* A Jeremiah - a buzzkill
* Sword of Damocles - a parable popularized by the Roman philosopher Cicero, meant to illustrate how those in power always labor under the specter of anxiety and death. Nowadays, the phrase is commonly used as a catchall term to describe a looming threat.
* Soiled Dove - a woman of ill-repute
* Selkie - a seal woman. These Celtic faeries were said to shapeshift between their seal and humanoid forms by means of a removable seal skin. A human man could coerce a Selkie into marrying him by stealing her skin-changer and hiding it from her, thereby preventing her return to the sea.
* Succubus - a female demon that seduces mortal men
* Faerie Ring - a circle of mushrooms that, in European folklore, was associated with supernatural revelry and danger. Numerous legends focus on mortals entering a faerie ring and suffering the consequences.
NEXT PART -> A Place Amongst Them
he's so jealous and upset.. 
