Past Reckonings, Part 1

by Kieri

Logan slipped a leg over the edge of the worn leather saddle and dropped lightly to the muddy street, his boots sinking into the mire with a soft squish. Patting the roan gently, he tied the reins loosely to a hitching post and whistled softly for the huge red wolf that trailed along behind the horse. "Wolf, heel." Wolf whined softly in reply, padding up to playfully lick at her companion's hand and trot along after him as he clomped up onto the walkway and into the saloon.

It was his annual trip out of the mountains and into Denver for supplies; he'd already spent a good hour dickering the owner of the General Store, a redheaded fellow named Collins, into a fair price on good tobacco and a few additions to his library. Denver was the sort of town where a man like Logan didn't earn too many sharp looks; they saw enough mountain folk and miners to hardly notice the short, gruff man clad entirely in buckskins and wool. It was Wolf they noticed, the great beastie of fiery auburn fur that tagged along after Logan like a giant puppy. Not a few ladies crossed the street rather than pass by Logan and Wolf, which suited the pair just fine. If it wasn't for some sorely needed essentials, like that tobacco, they wouldn't come out of the Rockies at all.

When they did come to town, they had a fairly well-established routine. First to the hotel to get a room for the night, then the store for supplies, then the bathouse for an hour-long soak, and finally...

"The Red Herring Saloon." Logan's voice rasped slightly as he flicked a smile at Wolf, "Only place in Colorado Territory that serves real Irish whiskey, and lots of it." Pushing open the swinging door, he stepped into the room with a light tread and Wolf at his heels. The Saloon was a long, wide room made hazy by smoke from sputtering lanterns and tobacco of all types. All of the furniture was made of hard, sturdy wood left rough and unfinished with the sole exception of the bar itself, which was a finely polished construction of dark oak that fairly glowed. Brass fixtures and a wide mirror reflected the dim firelight. The noise of a plinky piano and harsh, braying laughter filled the room as men and a few sloppy-looking women set about drowning their troubles.

The only person Logan counted as a friend in this town was tending the place, pouring drinks and buffing his cherished oak bar and yelling affably at his employees. Logan headed over towards him, Wolf's tail swinging hard enough to gain quickly hushed complaints from the other patrons. "Cassidy."

The Irishman looked up and grinned, "Logan, if it's nae the devil himself. Welcome back!" As he opened his mouth to reply, the stage erupted in the sweet melody of a young woman's voice. Blinking a bit, he looked at the stage in surprise to see a lovely young redhead crooning a Stephen Foster song to the drunken crowd.

Turning to the barkeep, he asked, "New floorshow?" Cassidy grinned with pride, "Me daughter, Theresa. Her mam sent her to me last fall, from the Old Country. She can sing like a lark, can't she?"

As Theresa entranced the crowds, Sean and Logan caught up with one another. The Irishman had served with Logan during the war, infiltrating Southern spy networks and gathering intelligence for General Grant and the President. After the war they had both migrated west to the Colorado Territory, parting ways when Sean settled down in the boom town of Denver, marrying a stubborn Scottish widow and making himself blissfully happy. Logan, on the other hand, kept roving into the mountains until he found a secluded canyon where game and fresh water were plentiful and mankind happily absent. He had seen enough butchery during the war to convince himself that "civilized" society was more trouble than it was worth.

"So, Logan, how's that mountain of yours? Still paradise?" The Irishman's brogue grew stronger in direct proportion to the amount of whiskey he consumed.

The shorter man grunted slightly, "Crowded. Bunch o' greenhorns started themselves up a ranch not more than a days ride away. Think it'll be time for me to move on soon."

A slight frown flickered across Sean's face before he replied, "I'll be sore ta see you go. We've been friends for a good fifteen years. Ye'll be missed." He quietly offered his hand, which Logan took in a shake that confirmed fifteen years of unsaid respect. "I suppose 'tis only fair ta tell ye that Moira an' I will be movin' on next year as well. Soon as the babe's old enough ta travel. She's got a hankerin' to see San Francisco, Moira does."

Logan nodded a bit, unsurprised. Frankly, he wouldn't be amazed if Moira ended up dragging Sean onto the first ship bound for Scotland. No one knew the full story about how the stubborn Scot had ended up in the Rockies, but it was fair knowledge that she still considered herself a Scot first and foremost and only a temporary resident of the United States. Sean put up with her temper with a warm affability that mixed well with her (in Logan's opinion) rather irksome nature. Despite Moira's well-known yen for the Highlands, he was a bit curious about the sudden timing. Moira had only given birth to the Cassidy's second child at Christmas, and her mother-bear protectiveness would normally keep her youngest from a long journey for several years.

Sean continued, "An' while the Herring's new owner is fair enough, it just feels like time ta be movin' on." Sean's brusque tone and slight fidgeting piqued his interest.

"New owner, eh? Old rat finally kick the bucket?" The previous owner, an arrogant weasel named Shaw, was not well-liked.

The Irishman abruptly tossed back another shot of whiskey, saying shortly, "Aye."

Logan raised an eyebrow. He could count on one hand the times Sean had lost his temper, and something had him might close to the edge of a full-out rant. Before he had a chance to question his friend closer, a soft rustle of silk and waft of spicy perfume interrupted him. He noticed Sean stiffen minutely as a soft voice said crisply, "Sitting down on the job, Mr. Cassidy?"

Even as he turned around, Logan figured out what had Moira in such a dither to get out of town. (( An' fer once, I agree with her. )) The woman before him had hair like captured sunlight, eyes of chilled glacial blue ice, and a demeanor to match. She wore white silk in an incredibly daring style that plunged where fashion dictated a gentle slope and rose high where common sense suggested a modest foor-length sweep. Despite this, there was no mistaking her for a saloon girl. Maybe it was the "touch me and prepare to lose a kidney" attitude that she fairly radiated.

Sean actually glared for a moment, an action somewhat dulled by the fact that it was aimed at the table top. With obvious control, the Irishman replied, "Me shift was over at half past, Miss Frost."

Logan watched in amused silence. The woman either needed a good whalloping, or a bodyguard. Feeling inclined to do neither, he merely tipped back in his chair and observed the proceedings.

Frosty, as the mountain man had mentally dubbed her, frowned slightly for a moment before saying magnanimously, "Very well. If you'll excuse me?" Without bothering to wait for a reply, she sauntered off to inspect the rest of the establishment.

Sean watched her go with a very mixed expression, before muttering, "Women'll be the death of me, m' friend. Just wait." He tossed back another shot while his friend nodded sagely.

"It'll be sooner than ya think, if ya come home to Moira drunk. Pass that bottle over this way."

As they drank, neither of the two friends noticed the quietly observing pair of eyes that watched quietly from the crack of an upstairs door, narrowed in rage. (( Soon...Very soon, this will be over, Logan. And I will be the winner. ))

[next part]

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