Vengeance Road by Erin Bowman

practically hear him chiding,
Ain’t no reason to keep pretending yer a boy.
    He throws back his drink, then turns away from me, sliding the empty glass forward for a refill. I shove out the saloon without a backwards glance.
    It’s later than I expected. The sun’s set, but a bit of light still stains the horizon. The lantern hanging from the parlor eaves is already lit and glowing scarlet.
    Silver’s waiting not far to my right with her reins wrapped round the hitching post. She stamps a hoof, tosses her head. Suddenly, not even the sight of her makes me feel better, ’cus alls I can see is Jesse tracking her for me. Finding her. Bringing her back.
    Why’s he gotta be so honorable? If he were more like Will, he’d be easier to hate. But somehow I like Will just fine and can’t stand Jesse.
    Goddamn mess of a hunt. And now I can’t even cut loose till morning.
    I look at the darkening sky and curse under my breath. I hope Jesse drinks so much whiskey, he passes out. If I gotta see him squinting again when I get back, judging and glowering, I’m gonna go mad.
    I stomp down the street, jiggling my fingers by my thighs like I can shake the prickling emotions outta my body. I pass a string of saloons and a bank, then finally find a general store looking like it could rival Goldwaters. Hancock’s, according to the paint on the facade. The owner’s closing soon, and he’s sure to tell me it the moment I step through the doorway.
    I shop quick, gathering up more cured meat, matches, ammo, and anything else I think I might need heading into the mountains come dawn. Then I dally on the general store’s porch, groceries between my feet and back pressed ’gainst the wall. The last bit of light leaks from the sky. A few less-than-respectable-looking characters start wandering the streets, heading for the various saloons. I ain’t ready to return to the parlor. If’n I stand here long enough, Jesse might be asleep when I get back. Maybe I can creep in extra late and sneak out come first light without so much as facing him.
    It dawns on me that I don’t know where we’re staying for the night. Evelyn’ll need her room. There were only so many couches on the main floor, and I reckon they’ll be full of patrons. I should prolly see if there’s a hotel round.
    As I stoop to grab my groceries, two long coats drift by.
    â€œ. . . shouldn’t be stopping here,” one man’s saying.
    â€œYou know the boss man. He’s got a weakness for cards,” the second replies. I go rigid on the porch. “’Sides, he’s only playing a few hands, and didn’t Hank say the sheriff’s gone on business till tomorrow?”
    I strain my hearing, but they’s already moved outta earshot, so I follow ’em, being sure to keep back a good distance. They walk fearless, like predators on the prowl. Finally, they head into the Tiger Saloon. It’s a big place, two stories high. I hurry nearer, and sure enough, there’s their horses. Seven of ’em. Waiting calm as ever at the hitching post, a rose burned into each saddle.
    On the other side of the swinging doors I can hear music and rowdy men. Shouts and bets and a few girls carrying a tune. How’s it folks in a town as small as Walnut Grove knew ’bout Waylan Rose, and here people don’t seem to notice the demons they got stomping down their own streets?
    Could be they
do
know and are too scared to do nothing ’bout it without the sheriff round. It ain’t one man they’re up ’gainst, but a whole gang.
    Or, could be Rose and his boys ain’t been recognized. When I’s a kid, we had an outlaw squatting in Prescott a few weeks and not a soul noticed. There were wanted posters hung on every other town building too. Problem was, the illustration weren’t very good—he were drawn too young and thin—and with the outlaw going by a