refugees now shivering in Pa’s first-floor saloon-cum-parlour arrangement, simply fled.
“We had to burn near everything, in the end,” Mister Frewer said, at last. “’Fore it seeded. And since blood won’t bring that back, I don’t hold it’d do the rest of us any manner of good, to know we might’ve saved ourselves the trouble.”
A long tick of Pa’s desk clock passed, before Sheriff Haish spoke again. “Mister Frewer, just how many of your fellow townsfolk came with you, after the fire?”
“All of ’em, near as I figure. A hundred and twenty, thirty—fifty? We didn’t take no census.”
Kloves nodded. “Hard to fault you. All the same, Mister Frewer, we
are
going to have to talk this over somewhat. So, your kind permission . . .”
“Yeah—yes. ’Course.” Though stumble-footed, Frewer still made the door fast enough that Yancey barely had time to duck into the linen closet, reduced to watching him stagger back down to where the rest of his delegation waited, through the half-cracked door. Then, soon as he’d vanished, she counted herself safe to take up station outside Pa’s doorway once more.
“. . . can’t just let ’em
in!
” Hugo Hoffstedt, the tobacconist, was saying; a distant cousin of the town’s founding family, he was a coward and a snob, but wealthy. “Am I the only man here not a fool?”
“Now, Hugo,” Pa protested. “Christian charity—”
“Don’t you preach at me, Lionel Colder, with Miss Yancey set to marry and your son-in-law-to-be right here within earshot—
your
family’s jeopardized, just as much as mine! What if the Weed chases after their stink and we have to burn down the Hoard, too?”
Sheriff Haish rolled his eyes. “There’s no proven evidence the Weed
follows
folks—”
“There’s no
proven
evidence it don’t!”
An argument impossible to pursue, let alone rebut—but the Marshal, often the coolest head in any room, didn’t even try.
“Mister Hoffstedt has a point,” he allowed. “In these disordered times, might be all too easy to think Mouth-of-Praise’s ‘misfortune’ a tad convenient, a good excuse to get ’emselves dug inside our borders, so they could kill us in our beds and take all we have . . . but lookin’ at poor Mister Frewer, how likely does
that
seem?”
A murmur of agreement ran through the room, and even Hoffstedt had the good grace to look a tiny bit ashamed for something he hadn’t actually stated directly. Easy to see how Kloves rose so quickly to his current position, by the relatively young age of seven-and-twenty; he’d parlayed leadership skills hard-won in battle into a peacetime efficacy. Yancey knew all too well he had already impressed her Pa as worthy of every support he could afford . . . including the boon of her own hand in marriage.
He’s a good man, gal. I have to think of your future, what with your Mama gone—don’t want to work my hotel ’til you’re staring at spinsterhood, do you? All I want’s your happiness.
She felt her head dip at the truth of it, automatic. For there were no fairy tales in this life, only patterns of supply and exchange—rules, regulations, methods and manners of payment. And she knew all
that
well enough, too; had the very job Pa thought to save her from, to thank for it.
“No,” Kloves said, “the Weed’s undeniable, as both fact and threat. ’Sides which, you don’t want to back rats into a corner, when they’re desperate . . . not if it’s a whole bunch of rats, armed, and it’s
your
corner.”
Hoffstedt said: “Well, that’s your job, ain’t it? To keep us safe.”
Pa: “Easiest way to do
that
is act like we ought. Right, Sheriff?”
“Right.”
“Then let’s put it to the vote, shall we?” Kloves said. “Just so nobody thinks what I suggest carries—this bein’ a democracy, same’s every other part of these United States.”
You diplomat.
Yancey shook her head, amused despite herself.
Albeit one with a nice shiny tin star, and
“We had to burn near everything, in the end,” Mister Frewer said, at last. “’Fore it seeded. And since blood won’t bring that back, I don’t hold it’d do the rest of us any manner of good, to know we might’ve saved ourselves the trouble.”
A long tick of Pa’s desk clock passed, before Sheriff Haish spoke again. “Mister Frewer, just how many of your fellow townsfolk came with you, after the fire?”
“All of ’em, near as I figure. A hundred and twenty, thirty—fifty? We didn’t take no census.”
Kloves nodded. “Hard to fault you. All the same, Mister Frewer, we
are
going to have to talk this over somewhat. So, your kind permission . . .”
“Yeah—yes. ’Course.” Though stumble-footed, Frewer still made the door fast enough that Yancey barely had time to duck into the linen closet, reduced to watching him stagger back down to where the rest of his delegation waited, through the half-cracked door. Then, soon as he’d vanished, she counted herself safe to take up station outside Pa’s doorway once more.
“. . . can’t just let ’em
in!
” Hugo Hoffstedt, the tobacconist, was saying; a distant cousin of the town’s founding family, he was a coward and a snob, but wealthy. “Am I the only man here not a fool?”
“Now, Hugo,” Pa protested. “Christian charity—”
“Don’t you preach at me, Lionel Colder, with Miss Yancey set to marry and your son-in-law-to-be right here within earshot—
your
family’s jeopardized, just as much as mine! What if the Weed chases after their stink and we have to burn down the Hoard, too?”
Sheriff Haish rolled his eyes. “There’s no proven evidence the Weed
follows
folks—”
“There’s no
proven
evidence it don’t!”
An argument impossible to pursue, let alone rebut—but the Marshal, often the coolest head in any room, didn’t even try.
“Mister Hoffstedt has a point,” he allowed. “In these disordered times, might be all too easy to think Mouth-of-Praise’s ‘misfortune’ a tad convenient, a good excuse to get ’emselves dug inside our borders, so they could kill us in our beds and take all we have . . . but lookin’ at poor Mister Frewer, how likely does
that
seem?”
A murmur of agreement ran through the room, and even Hoffstedt had the good grace to look a tiny bit ashamed for something he hadn’t actually stated directly. Easy to see how Kloves rose so quickly to his current position, by the relatively young age of seven-and-twenty; he’d parlayed leadership skills hard-won in battle into a peacetime efficacy. Yancey knew all too well he had already impressed her Pa as worthy of every support he could afford . . . including the boon of her own hand in marriage.
He’s a good man, gal. I have to think of your future, what with your Mama gone—don’t want to work my hotel ’til you’re staring at spinsterhood, do you? All I want’s your happiness.
She felt her head dip at the truth of it, automatic. For there were no fairy tales in this life, only patterns of supply and exchange—rules, regulations, methods and manners of payment. And she knew all
that
well enough, too; had the very job Pa thought to save her from, to thank for it.
“No,” Kloves said, “the Weed’s undeniable, as both fact and threat. ’Sides which, you don’t want to back rats into a corner, when they’re desperate . . . not if it’s a whole bunch of rats, armed, and it’s
your
corner.”
Hoffstedt said: “Well, that’s your job, ain’t it? To keep us safe.”
Pa: “Easiest way to do
that
is act like we ought. Right, Sheriff?”
“Right.”
“Then let’s put it to the vote, shall we?” Kloves said. “Just so nobody thinks what I suggest carries—this bein’ a democracy, same’s every other part of these United States.”
You diplomat.
Yancey shook her head, amused despite herself.
Albeit one with a nice shiny tin star, and
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