The Rider

MARY ANN

The dirty rag ran through her fingers and squawked when she dragged it over the surface of the glass. It was already clean but Mary Ann wasn't to know that. Across the room, the Marshal had made himself at home and she could not take her eyes from him.

Candles flickered on the wall behind Marshal Garrett, illuminating him just enough to allow Mary Ann to make out his form. His Stetson hat was drawn down and his duster jacket parted purposefully so he could display the guns strapped at his side. The flames of the candle flickered off the tin star pinned to his chest.

He was surrounded by men, partaking in a poker game. Virgil Blaylock was not among them and Mary Ann hoped nobody would dare cheat in the Marshal's presence. She wouldn't have anybody beaten or worse, shot, not in her place. Not by him.

"You're gonna wear it through," the Rider said, gesturing at the glass she persisted on rubbing dry with the rag.

Coming to her senses, Mary Ann set down the glass. Her fingers spread, and she steadied her trembling hand against the strong wood of the counter. The sight of him made her stomach sick but Mary Ann could not stop herself from glancing towards the Marshal.

The Rider followed her gaze, looking over his shoulder to see who occupied her attention. He must have seen something in her expression, because he soon took her hand in his and said in a firm voice, "He doesn't know Fischer is here."

"He knows. Everybody knows. And Marshal Garrett will hang us both when he finds him."

"Go upstairs."

"This is my tavern" Mary Ann replied.

"Do it."

"What are you gonna do?"

"The Marshal and I are going to have a conversation."

Her hand slipped out from beneath his and instead, Mary Ann put it to use, reaching across the bar and gripping the Rider by the forearm. "He's dangerous, and he means you harm. Else wise he wouldn't be here."

"I'm aware of that," he replied, rising from the stool and breaking from her grasp. In her panic, Mary Ann once again allowed herself to look towards the Marshal. Her heart almost stopped when he lifted his head and stared right at her. A hideous smirk darkened his face and the glint of a silver tooth caught the light. There was no end to his brazenness.

The Rider was unconcerned. He finished his drink, threw the hem of his woollen poncho across his right shoulder, and let the stock of his Colt Peacemaker settle in the crook of his hand. It was a warning to the Marshal, much to Mary Ann's dismay. I have to stop him, she thought, but no sooner than she'd done so, the Rider set a course towards Marshal Garrett's table.

She scurried around the bar, her swollen knee be damned, blocking the Rider's path.

"Go and see to Fischer upstairs," Mary Ann implored, trying to deter him from his intention. "If you provoke him, the Marshal will put a bullet in you, like the one in the floor there. There'll be no mending it."

His gaze flittered from Mary Ann to the hole in the wooden floor, caused by her rogue scattergun shot. Finally, it crept back towards the Marshal. "He can try."

There was no stopping him. Fischer's companion ushered her aside and strode off towards Marshal Garrett, joining his poker game. The dirty rag in her hand absentmindedly worked its way around her fingertips. Once they'd turned a nasty shade of purple, Mary Ann gathered herself. She couldn't bear to stand around and watch what happened.

Fischer was sleeping when she entered his room upstairs, his wide-brimmed, dented-crowned hat covering his face. His boots were placed one over the other. The gunshot wound in his gut had been mended and wrapped, best she could manage, but his blood still found a way to stain the sheets. It was brown, the colour of his leather boots, and altogether hideous. If it weren't for the arm Fischer kept rested against his abdomen, he might have looked comfortable.