Gabe

The sound of whispering made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Whispering and rustling skirts, somewhere in the back of the store. Most times, when the folks in town got it in their minds to make trouble for him, there was little Gabe could do but weather the storm. He worried someday the futility of it all would drive him mad and he'd go looking for trouble before it could sneak up behind him.

Not today. Today, he did his best to avoid it, knowing all the while that the storm was inevitable.

Carrying a crate under one arm, he stacked canned apples into one corner before moving down the row to scoop a sack of beans from the bottom shelf. The whispering continued, a faint giggle cutting through the dusty air, and all the muscles around his spine tightened in discomfort.

God dammit.

He continued shopping, gritting his teeth against the urge to yell. That goddamned preacher called his girls harlots, and... well, sure. Some of them were a bit wanton. But they were honest, and most of them were kind down to their bones. These wives in town were duplicitous bitches, one and all.

The two women followed him through the store, trailing him from aisle to aisle as he forced himself to concentrate on the list he'd been given.

This trouble with the reverend was playing all sorts of havoc on his life. On the one hand, his worry for Katherine was a living thing with venomous skin, growing deep within him and poisoning him from the inside out. On the other hand, Katherine's disappearance had nudged his mother and the reverend one step closer to all out war. The situation had escalated from random acts of vandalism and harassment to a constant flood of threats. Even the toughest of the girls were afraid to go to town. Which meant that it fell to him to do the shopping.

Next stop: dress shop.

Mr. Roberts, the owner of the general store, played a convincing deaf and blind man as the two women followed Gabe through the store like hunters trailing wounded prey. He'd known the women the second they entered, by the pitchy warble of their voices and the cloud of harsh perfume that surrounded them. Mrs. Thompson in the grey, and Mrs. Mulligan in the faded purple. Which meant it was Robert Mulligan and Andrew Thompson who waited somewhere in the street outside to ambush him with clumsy fists and fabricated claims that he sought to debauch their wives. Not so bad, he thought. Robert was a behemoth, but painfully stupid and as slow as he was overfed. Andrew was the soft underbelly of an overturned tortoise.

Retrieving the last item on his list, a box of cornstarch, he rounded a corner and found the aisle blocked by pink satin and gray-blue calico. Lace-trimmed bonnets and shiny, patent-leather shoes peeking from beneath white petticoats. Mrs. Mulligan was a pretty thing, with olive skin, perfect circles of rose brushed onto her high cheekbones. Mrs. Thompson might have been pretty once, but her husband didn't have Mr. Mulligan's wealth or clout. And women like this, vain and vapid, tended toward a reflection of their husbands. So Mrs. Thompson, who might once have been pretty and vibrant, was decked out in rough blue-gray, her face sallow, her hair dull. Even her eyes were filmed over with cloudy acceptance, where her friend's were sparking with wicked intent.

"'Scuse me, ladies," he muttered, jerking his chin toward the end of the aisle. They didn't move. Mrs. Thompson dropped her gaze to the floor, and Mrs. Mulligan lifted her chin, a smirk playing at one corner of her mouth.

"Morning Mr. Townsend," she crooned, the sultry tones like a sweet song played slightly off key.

"Morning, Mrs. Mulligan," he answered tightly. He had other errands to run, dammit. He didn't have time for this game. But there was no road to take that didn't lead to confrontation. He was trapped in a maze that just led him deeper into darkness.

"What have you got there?" she stood on her tiptoes and peered down into his crate, her bottom lip sticking out in a pout when she saw the contents. "Well that's boring."

"Sorry to disappoint you," he grumbled. If they weren't going to move, he'd just go down another aisle.

"Mr. Townsend, don't be rude." A small hand wrapped around his forearm, sloppily-painted nails digging into his skin.

"Let go," he growled, tugging gently at his arm. She stumbled as if he'd yanked on her with all his might, falling forward and knocking the crate from his arm. He caught her on instinct as she fell against his chest, the crate tipping onto its side, cans and jars rolling across the splintering pine floorboards, wedging themselves beneath the lip of the shelves.

Mrs. Thompson mustered the energy for a dramatic gasp, her eyes as dead as ever even while she grasped her friend by the shoulders and pulled her from his hold. Mrs. Mulligan sagged in the other woman's arms as if holding back a swoon, though her face was flushed an excited pink, and her eyes sparked with delight. And he knew that if he ever sought to lower himself to this level, to cavort with shallow, needy vultures that this one would be at the front of the line.

"How dare you put your hands on me," she gasped breathlessly, and Gabe wondered what the hell was the point of this whole charade. Mr. Roberts, who was studiously ignoring the whole exchange, would back whatever the ladies claimed. Their husbands were the ones who had set them to it. Why go to all this trouble when all they had to do was lie?

"I didn't put my ha--"

But she had already whirled around, grasping Mrs. Thompson by the hand and dragging her behind. They disappeared through the front door in a cloud of fabric and buzzing excitement, and it occurred to Gabe that trouble hovered around him like flies hovered over the bloated putrescence of a fresh corpse-- pitiful and nagging and relentless. Exhausting. He moved to the front counter. He needed to make these purchases, regardless of what awaited him outside. Mr. Roberts tallied up the total and Gabe counted out the bills. Nobody in town, but for the dressmaker, offered Vivian or any of her employees credit. It was cash only, and there was an irony to the fact that it was their own hard earned cash-- sweat stained and crumpled and stinking of misdeeds-- that he handed back to them each week. Or maybe it wasn't ironic at all.

Crate wedged under one arm, he left the general store and descended the creaking wooden stairs. His arm was getting tired, but he didn't dare use two hands to carry his purchases. It was always wise to have his dominant hand free in this town. He scanned the street as his boots hit the packed dirt. The wide cobblestone drag of Main Street was quiet, just a few couples striding up and down the packed dirt walkway in front of the buildings-- the tobacco shop and the barber. Dressmaker and doctor. The post office and the library and, at the very end of the street, the relative magnificence of the red brick hotel.

He could almost like the town on a day like today-- peaceful and subdued. He could almost forget what lurked in the alleys between the squat, weather-worn wooden buildings.

They cornered him while he was loading his items from the crate into his horse's saddle bags. Not Reaper, today. The monster had no tolerance for running errands in town. Daffodil-- her coat a shiny gray that just about matched her temperament, was a sweet thing. Sometimes, he liked her more than he liked Reaper. He never got the feeling Daffodil wanted to send a hoof through his rib cage. She stood waiting for him, hitched to the post beside the stairs, tail swishing idly and perfectly content to stare at the clapboard walls of the general store.

Footsteps scuffed the dirt behind him, and he didn't bother to turn around before the heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

"Easy there, boy," Mulligan said, with the haughty confidence of a man who had come with reinforcements. "Don't even think of reaching for that pistol."

Gabe had never intended to, but he held his hands beside his head as if in surrender. He knew what would happen if he ever shot one of these worthless sacks of rancid cowshit-- the populace would turn to a mob, the sheriff would arrest him, and they'd stretch his neck in the town square before the sun set. Never mind that the sheriff had no stomach for execution. He'd make an exception if the town demanded it, and the town would demand it if he ever dared take a life. The pistol was a last resort.

Fists, on the other hand...

"What's the problem, Robert?" he asked, turning slowly at the man's ungentle tug. As usual, Mulligan's face was the dusky red hue of an angry turnip, his nose a veiny, bulbous growth between his beady eyes. Behind him to the left stood Andrew Thompson, and Gabe decided that Andrew wasn't like the underside of a tortoise after all. He was the underside of a fish-- slimy and stinking. The mustache on his trembling upper lip were reminiscent of the delicate hairs that grew in the dip of a woman's back-- soft and sparse.

"You know what the problem is, Devil's Spawn," Mulligan snarled, jerking his head at the two woman who stood in the shade of the building. They huddled together like they were sharing shelter from the rain, affecting a dramatic and unconvincing aire of terror. "What makes you think you can harass our wives and get away with it?"

The sigh that fought its way up Gabe's throat wouldn't do much good, so he swallowed it down.

"I never harassed your wife, Robert," he said, shifting his gaze to the other man. "Or yours, Andrew. I was just getting supplies, that's all."

"You don't have to say a word to sully her, and you did more than that," Mulligan said. "I'd sooner loose a rabid dog on my woman than let your filthy gaze touch her, let alone your hands."

"Well if that's how you talk about her, it's no wonder you're worried for her fidelity," Gabe said before he could stop the words. The net he usually used to catch the barbs on their way out was frayed from overuse after these last few weeks of constant harassment.

Ah, well. He'd been wanting to get his knuckles bloody anyway.

"You son of a bitch!" The hand on his shoulder tightened to a fist, trapping his shirt in meaty fingers, and Mulligan swung his fist like he was wielding an axe. Gabe ducked and dropped to a knee, wrenching the man off balance. He toppled, losing his grip on Gabe's shirt and stumbling forward into Daffodil's side. Docile as she was, the horse startled at the rough treatment and danced sideways toward the stairs. Curling himself into a ball, Gabe rolled between the deadly hooves and sprang to his feet on the far side of the frightened animal.

"Leave it alone, Robert," he said as the big man righted himself and stalked around Daffodil's rear, the shade of his face deepening from turnip to pickled beet. In Gabe's experience, the man tended to forget how to speak when he turned this particular color. Sure enough, rather than respond or toss some clumsy insult, the man charged. Trapped between Daffodil and the stairs to the porch, Gabe let his body go loose and allowed the man's weight to carry him back into the clapboard wall. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and his ears rang when his head kissed the bottom rung of the porch rail.

Unfortunately for Mr. Mulligan, he'd not just trapped Gabe, he'd cut himself off from the assistance of his quivering, spineless partner in justice. Not to mention, he'd just put his opponent in the position that best lit the fire inside him. Gabe wondered why cornered animals got such bad publicity. He liked to fight in a corner. Nobody could come at his back that way.

Mulligan had a fleshy forearm against his throat and was throwing heavy punches at his ribs. If the idiot could keep his head on in a fight, he'd have been a force to be reckoned with. Instead, though, he lost it. Every damn time. Like a rabid dog, he abandoned his faculties and went mad with the rage. Half the punches he threw landed on the wall by Gabe's side, and the ones that landed only fueled the fire that grew inside him. Unlike Robert Mulligan, Gabe never let the flames consume him. He stoked it and tended it and let it burn right in the space below his sternum until every muscle in his body crackled with it.

Numb to the impact of Mulligan's blows, he let the man's weight hold him against the wall and lifted his legs off the ground. Wedging his knees against the man's chest, he let a draught of furious rage flow through him, driving his legs out and shoving the man away so hard he stumbled backward and landed heavily on his ass.

Falling on his own backside, Gabe threw himself forward as Daffodil skittered away, straddling his opponent before the man could roll away. With one hand on the doughy chest, he balled his left hand into a fist and counted out the punches.

One would make his ears ring.

Two would make his vision turn white.

Three would jolt his mind loose from his body, limbs going slack and worthless.

Four would break his soul away from his mind and send him into dark oblivion.

One, two, three, four. He counted out the blows until Robert Mulligan lay pliant and unmoving in the dirt, one eye already swelling and a thin trail of blood winding over his temple toward his thinning hairline.

A burst of lightning turned the yellow sunlight an alarming, blinding white. When the light faded, Gabe was sprawled on his side, blinking at Daffodil's dancing hooves, his ears ringing like church bells.

Now that was irony.

Andrew Thompson hovered over him, a dented can in his hand and a look of terror on his face. He was right to be afraid, Gabe thought as he let the fire spread out into his muscles, burning him back to life. Everyone talked about him like he was death incarnate, but the truth was Gabe wasn't anything special in a fight. He wasn't some boxer from the city, or a sharpshooter dealing death across the lawless territories. He wasn't all that deadly.

He was just very, very good at taking a punch.

And very, very good at letting his fire burn up pain and frustration like dry wood soaked in kerosene.

Shoving off the ground, he let the wavering ground beneath his feet drive him into Andrew, who dropped his can and his guard, half turning to run before Gabe tackled him to the ground. They rolled twice in the dirt. When Gabe felt the ground at his back he twisted his body around and put himself on top. In the periphery, he heard voices, and half-hurried footsteps. Nobody ran to these fights anymore. Nobody cared if he lived or died, and they all knew by now he wouldn't dare kill a man himself.

Spectators only.

He wrapped a hand around Andrew's throat and pushed himself up. The man barely struggled, his body gone limp with terror beneath Gabe's weight. His eyes were wide, the milky blue shot through with pink streaks of terror.

"I thought I already taught you this lesson, Andrew," he said, tightening his grip until the man's face went from terrified white to deep red, a vein pulsing beneath the thin skin of his temple. He lowered his voice until only the man could hear. "Hit me again and I'll kill you. Do you understand me?"

It was an empty threat, but any kind of threat was danger enough to a nerveless, flaccid cock like Andrew Thompson.

The man's face deepened from red to purple, but Gabe only tightened his grip. "I asked you a question, Andrew. Do you understand me?"

Fleshy lips parted and a choked gurgle escaped, the sound accompanied by a weak jerk of the head. Gabe accepted the answer for what it was, releasing his hold and shoving to his feet. His head roared at the movement but he locked his knees and turned, leaving one victim writhing in the dirt, gasping for air, and the other twitching feebly, limbs making vague motions in the dirt as Mulligan clawed his way back to consciousness.

He ignored the small crowd that had gathered, and the women who had kicked off this little charade with their fabricated distress, neither of whom made any move to help the men to whom they were bound. He ran a hand over Daffodil's neck, murmuring under his breath to the anxious horse until she calmed. Then he stooped, retrieving the dented can of black beans Andrew had used to attack him and tucking it into the saddle bag from which it was stolen.

The crowd parted as he led the horse away from the bloody scene. Nobody bothered to threaten him with arrest, and nobody dared launch an attack of their own.

It was a careful equilibrium, this half-war in which his mother had entered with the reverend. In which he and the girls had entered with the town itself. He suspected that, for all the townsfolk jeered and insulted them in the streets, they knew as well as he did that his mother's business was essential. Their God was a mockery, but their sins were very real. Without the girls, the drink, the release... without Vivian's Saloon, this place would fall to chaos.

Just as important as the release, though, was the righteous indignation that came on its heels. Fury was as essential to their survival and self-respect as indulgence was essential to their sanity. They needed Vivian's sanctuary, and they needed to hate her for providing it. They needed the girls' lithe, youthful bodies, and they needed to mock the tattered souls which inhabited them. They needed for Gabe to make them bleed, and they needed to draw his blood in return.

They let him walk away for the same reason he never let himself answer the call in his heart and take his violence to its natural conclusion. This was the natural order. This passive, restrained war was an expression of an ugly, essential balance.

Thoughts of natural harmony plagued Gabe as he walked Daffodil the rest of the way home. He didn't dare show his face in the main building, electing to leave the supplies in the stables while he cleaned up in his room. He didn't like for the girls to see him bleed. For one, their hollering and fussing and oaths of bloody vengeance were too chaotic for his taste. More importantly, though, he knew it scared them. He could always see the fear, just beneath the surface of their fury. He could swear on his life to protect them, but that wasn't much good as a comfort if they were constantly being reminded that life, even his life, was perilously fragile.

Andrew's can had left a lump on his scalp, but it had barely broken the skin. He scrubbed the blood from the back of his neck and pulled his small, warped shaving mirror from the top drawer of his dresser. One of Mulligan's punches had split his lip and another had already left a raised bruise by his eye.

He fought thoughts of Katherine as he rinsed the blood from his face and his knuckles, the water stained a dirty pink by the time he finished. It was a constant battle, keeping her from the center of his mind where she belonged.

Wherever she was, he thought to himself, at least she was no longer bruised. Her ribs would still be bothering her, but she could probably stand and walk and laugh without wincing. Both of those sky blue eyes would be open, her lips a healthy, unbroken bow.

He sank onto the edge of his bed, leaning forward to brace his forearms on his legs, flexing his fists and staring at the raw skin of his knuckles, already livid with swelling.

Balance.

For so long, he had stood with the scale on the end of his finger, watching it rock as the war evolved-- his mother on one side, the reverend on the other. The girls versus the townspeople. A lust for carnal indulgence versus lust for righteous salvation. Fear versus pride. Love versus hate. Good versus evil. The scale never settled, but it never tipped so far he feared it would topple.

But Katherine... she had dropped something heavy into the mix the day she'd run, and Gabe had to admit he was afraid. The scale no longer rocked, but was canted hard to one side, unanchored and slipping over his finger, the slide slow but inexorable.

Katherine had thrown off the balance with her flight, and there was no regaining it now that the fall had begun. The trouble, Gabe thought as he closed his eyes and fought the image of her bruised and swollen face, was that he didn't know which way it was falling. He didn't know where the weight of Katherine's flight had landed.

The hell of it all was that he knew she would be far away and safe when the whole thing finally crashed to the ground. He knew it was good that she wouldn't have to bear witness to the chaos that ensued. He knew she deserved to be safe. He knew that he would rather die than see those angel eyes turn dark with despair and fear.

He knew, he knew...

He knew there was no way around his own desperate, pathetic, treacherous yearning to haul her and Isobel close and never let them go. To bury his face in her hair and pretend the world wasn't burning to the ground around them. He knew that he didn't want her safe and far away. Not unless he was safe and far away with her. 

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Happy Sunday, everyone! I hope to be back to more frequent updates soon. Things are a little hectic around here. I've got a move coming up and the pack out is taking up a lot of my time and, more importantly, my emotional energy. 

How are you all doing!? The weather has finally started cooling off and I've filled my apartment with apple spice candles. Autumn is coming, whether it wants to or not!!!

🍎🎃🍁🍂

<3 Liz <3

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