September 24th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

The town of Picklewood was a single street flanked by flat-faced buildings, settled in a sun-baked field just miles west of the Seeker Mountains. Brittle thorns and stout cacti went on as far as the eye could see to the north, south, and west.

A faint red cloud hovered perpetually over the Westen Freight station just outside of town where rail crossed road. Picklewood proper was only a short walk south from there.

Tright Tail, the slender river, thinner than usual after the dry summer, wound its way between rail and road, skirted the town, then rushed southward out of sight, running beneath a couple bridges along the way. A short path, the only divergence from the road, led to the only place of worship for miles. The akwa-temple with its arched roof was built over the river. Short support columns planted in both banks ensured that the water flowed beneath the feet of the attendees. Though God had risen from river to sky in the old country, where lands were green and lush, the people of the Five Colonies maintained the belief that His rivers were blessed. Even those in the new world.

Mayor Bass’ office stood at the end of the town where the road jutted left to meet the station. His front door aligned with the main road and warned anyone entering town that the eyes of the law were upon them. Mak was no longer visiting the mayor merely for himself, but for Daun and his family.

He pulled Butterhoof to a halt and cursed. The entrance to the mayor’s office was surrounded by a pack of northerners. Men in black with brass buttons and women in large, over-the-top dresses of all colours. There stood about twenty.

Some entered the building while others exited. They conversed and laughed while Picklewood citizens continued their business, mostly keeping to their own front porches or staying in their homes or shops. The northern cadence, spoken by so many at once, gave Mak a shudder.

His meeting with the mayor would have to wait. Wallen’s Woodwork was too close to the northerners for comfort, and so Skylde’s fiddle, which lay broken in a saddlebag, would wait as well.

Larryk’s saloon was the first building to his right. Perhaps he could find some answers within, or at the very least, have a drink and wait for the mass of northerners that clogged the streets to move on.

He hopped out of the saddle and hitched Butterhoof to a post before the saloon. The light coin purse in his coat pocket ached against his waist. There were many wiser things on which to spend what little they had, but Mak made peace with the mistake and entered through the heavy wooden door.

A nauseating concoction of smoke swirled and wisped around him. It stung his eyes. An old joke claimed that those who entered the saloon with narrowed eyes from the smoke seemed overly suspicious. Thus three men at the first table cheered, “I’m not the fella you’re looking for,” in unison and laughed before returning to their card game.

The intensity of the smoke was due to the lack of ventilation. It didn’t help that the town housed the only Westen Freight station west of the Seeker Mountains. Folk from countless cities and colonies, even some from across the sea attended with their own exotic leaves and weeds to burn in their pipes. The native Aquin also brought their bitter smelling herbs from the desert to smoke. The ceiling was low. The second storey had been demolished by Larryk’s father of the same name, the lumber sold. The sinful service of women had been available beforehand, but they could not compete with a brothel that had opened on the road half-way between Picklewood and Dogford, the big city up north.

Mak shook his head at the thought of such an industry, feigned a laugh at the joke he’d heard so many times, and started through the undiscernible conversations for his favourite stool on the far end of the bar, where he’d have a view of Butterhoof and the valuables she carried through a small window. A clean, unobstructed stretch of floor boards, well worn by countless booted feet, separated a row of vacant stools from a row of occupied tables.

Jak beckoned him. The handyman was the only occupant of his table below the age of sixty, and though he was nearly forty, his dark brown hair and strong frame presented him as youthful in contrast to his company.

“G’day, Jak.” Mak regarded the others at the table. “Gentlemen.”

The former gunsmith and the former leatherworker both returned his greeting with light grunts and the former fizzore miner waved the stump fixed with a wooden hand. Jak sat upright and spit a brown stream into a bucket on the floor, then smiled. A bit of brown bled through the cracks of his bottom teeth. “Where’s little Jerri?” He craned his neck to get a better view of the door.

“She’s back at the farm,” Mak said. “I didn’t bring her along this time.”

“Pity,” Jak deflated in his wooden chair. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if I can borrow her for a day or two.”

“What for?” Mak shifted uncomfortably. He respected Jak and considered him a friend, but the man was too loud. His boisterous voice attracted glances from the other tables and silenced conversations as patrons turned their ears to Mak’s business.

“I need that brain of hers,” Jak tapped at his temple. “New governor’s put in some laws concerning taxes for businessmen such as myself, and I can’t for the life of me figure them out. Too damn complicated. Real northern stench to them.”

The old men grunted their approval of the remark, and Mak found himself instinctively doing the same.

“My apprentice is good at what he does,” Jak continued, “but like me, he’s an idiot when it comes to such things.” He reloaded his bottom lip with a pinch of tobacco. “I’m too generous to the boy. Truth is he doesn’t know his own foot from his ass.” He frowned toward the former Fizzore miner. “No offense.”

The old men grunted again, then continued a barely audible conversation they’d been having throughout Mak and Jak’s exchange. The former fizzore miner didn’t even seem to notice what Jak had just said about his son.

“I’ll owe you a favour,” Jak said. “I know you don’t like others doing your work, but we can figure something out. Discount on tools or materials, maybe?”

“Sure thing, Jak,” Mak had intended to agree without being owed a favour, but the discount was too tempting to pass up after the summer. He doubted they would need any repairs, as most of the farm was in good shape, but storms happened. “I’ll send her over once the winter crops are planted. Won’t be so busy then.”

Handyman Jak waved a dismissing hand. “No rush. I’ve got until spring to figure it all out. Thanks, pal.”

Mak nodded.

“That Jerri can sure play some pretty music.” The former gunsmith sawed at a phantom fiddle, and his lashless eyes fluttered.

“Skylde plays the fiddle,” Mak corrected him. “My second daughter.”

The retired miner slammed his wooden hand on the table and laughed. “I told you!” His voice was hoarse from years underground.

The table erupted as the old men argued about something incoherent. Mak exchanged another nod with Jak and continued to his stool.

In the dark corner of the room, around the only table beneath an unlit lantern, were, of course, the natives. Mak froze. He was used to southern natives, with the cactus-like thorns they had for beards, pale yellow flesh, thick leaf clothing, and the line of stout, black horns that spanned from brow to nape, but he’d never seen a northern native before.

He was a large creature, a head taller than the average man, as all natives were, but unlike those Mak was accustomed to, this one was broad, and he looked strong. The little visible of his skin was a pale green, not sickly, but healthy and full of life, like early June leaves. He had a mighty beard of pine boughs, the needles long and of the darkest, richest green, and the same grew on his head instead of hair.

A southern native pointed a stout bulbous finger Mak’s way. The northern one turned to regard him. His bones of wood creaked like a falling tree. Mak was nervous around natives. His childhood had been filled with stories of them attacking his land. Grandpa or Pa would fight them off, and nearly die trying sometimes. “A man is not a man unless he bleeds for land or family,” his pa used to say. Mak took a deep breath and nearly coughed from the smoke. He suspected the natives could sense who he was and how many of their brethren had been killed by his pa and grandpa, even though he himself had never taken a life. Mak tipped his hat and took a seat at the far end of the bar. The natives lost interest and resumed their gloom-shrouded talks.

Mak hopped onto the stool and placed his hat on the bar. After making sure no one looked his way, he brushed a hand through his thick hair to ensure adequate presentability.

“Good day, Mak.” Larryk the barkeep was a gentle man with pristine manners. He wore a dark blue vest with a long-sleeved light blue undershirt. A red bow-tie bobbed before a high collar, and a white apron, surprisingly unstained, was tied around his waist. He smiled beneath a thick moustache. “What can I get ya?”

“Bottle of whiskey, and a shot for the road.” There was no need to specify which whiskey he meant. Larryk carried many brands, mostly as favours for local distillers, but when someone said they wanted whiskey in or around Picklewood, they meant Larryk’s family special.

The barkeep reached back without looking and pulled a dark bottle from a shelf. He placed a small glass beside Mak’s hat and poured a shot. A portrait of Larryk’s grandfather, or great grandfather, Mak always forgot which one, stood stern-faced on the label. The man carried a sabre, the ceremonial weapon of district rulers. The ruler of whiskey, it implied. The taste implied the same. Mak’s mouth watered.

He sniffed at the amber liquid. The comforting aroma of oak, spices, and the sweet syrup of a heffor tree brightened his mood. Larryk returned to the opposite end of the bar. He wiped the surface constantly during the afternoon while the sun shone directly onto the bar through the window, revealing any slight spillage, dust, or finger or hand print.

Mak’s coin purse burned in his pocket. It would be too light once he payed for the whiskey. He sat, nose in cup, enjoying the aroma of the drink, refusing to ingest it. He would only buy another if he drank it too quick.

Mak called the barkeep and beckoned him. Larryk approached. His light wisp of hair resisting a quickly fading hairline caught the breeze as he moved. Mak reached into his pocket and pulled out sufficient coins, held them out for Larryk, and said, “Take this now, and don’t let me buy anything else.”

Larryk smiled, accepted the coins, and locked them in a small chest beneath the bar. “Times are tough, friend. You aren’t alone. The corn fields I buy from were hurt by the summer like everyone else. I had to raise my whiskey price.” He leaned closer to Mak, “I keep the prices low for loyal customers such as yourself, just don’t tell them how little you paid,” he nodded toward the natives in the corner. The barkeep was gone before Mak could respond, and he continued to scrub at a seemingly spotless part of the bar.

Mak relaxed on his stool and surveyed the five tables, each filled to capacity. The first, and most boisterous, hosted a passionate game of cards. Mak didn’t recognize any of the young men who played, but he thought one of them might have been the stablekeep, Mr. Gorlund’s, boy. They grew up quick after a certain point. At least in size.

Mr. Selder, the baker’s husband, sat at the second table. He took no chair but instead pushed his wheel-chair to join the others. He ran the bakery before his accident. Word was he’d drunkenly fallen into the new steam-powered dough mixer, but he insisted he was crippled from fighting off five bandits who’d broken into his home—a claim that Sheriff Meadows vehemently refuted. Now he spent his time in Larryk’s saloon, rolling from table to table, speaking with whoever would have him. His current victims were two northern men, dressed identically to the ones on Mak’s property that morning, and a woman who sat with them. She was garbed in the same large dress and bright colours as those in front of the mayor’s office. Mak looked away in disgust. Was there anywhere to be free of them? The baker’s husband rambled. His arms flailed as he spoke, no doubt regaling them with some exaggerated story or lie from his past to gain their sympathies and respect.

The trio of old men around the third table was a permanent fixture in the saloon. They’d completed their services to the world and now spent their coin earned through the years on camaraderie. Mak rotated his sore shoulder and envied them for a moment. Handyman Jak listened as one of them listed needed repairs on his property. Mak never let other men do work for him, but he often went to Jak for advice. There was none more reliable or efficient.

The fourth table was alive with the loud laughter and mirthful conversations of the Deputy Wives. There were four of them cramped around the small table, and each spent more time eyeing the northern lady than each other.

“Look at her dress,” the closest to Mak said. She sat with a flawless posture and kept her hands on her knees. “I could never be pretty enough to wear something like that.”

“Or wealthy enough,” the one across from her said. Her right hand had short, raw nails, as if she worked hard labour, but her left hand had longer, painted ones like her companions. She continued to nibble on the right. “What do you suspect a single dress like that costs?”

“Their husbands are all engineers or own fizzore mines,” a third said. She was the only one who looked away from the northern lady periodically, but that was only to glance over her shoulder suspiciously at the natives. “Our husbands work just as hard but get paid far less. And for that, we’ll never get to be as pretty as her.”

Mak disagreed. They were young and desirable despite their plain tan robes and white overcoats. They hadn’t a child among them, though one was beginning to swell at the belly. Three of them were blonde and the fair hair caught the sun and brightened the smoky room.

Bitter-faced, low-talking natives surrounded the last table. There was no need for them to speak so quietly. No one understood the language anyway. One of the southern natives must have told a joke, for the northern one dropped his head back in laughter. Rusty pine needles rained onto the floor as bark-hide shoulders bounced.

“I just swept the floors!” Larryk the barkeep spread his arms and arched his brows.

“Sorry.” The native spoke with a thick accent. His voice sounded like a stone falling down a long well.

Larryk’s eyes stayed fixed on the natives until the laughter died down and the table was silent again. He turned away, but Mak knocked on the bar to get his attention.

“What do you know about the northerners in town?” Mak kept his voice low and eyed the second table.

“I don’t ask questions.” Larryk fished a bowl of heffor nuts from a cupboard behind him and lined ten of them on the bar. “I only listen to what folks are willing to share. These northerners don’t have much to say.”

“Heard anything about Westen Freight?” The line of nuts the size of Net’s fists reminded Mak that he hadn’t eaten yet.

“Only that they’ve been expanding a heck of a lot since the new governor took office.” Larryk pushed a fist on the first nut and let his weight crush the husk. He plucked the diamond shaped nut from the ruins and dropped it into a wooden bowl that would be free to pick from once full. “Seems they’ve got their eyes on our side of the mountains.”

“Bastards.”

“I don’t mind it,” Larryk said. “It ain’t often I have to ride up to Dogford, but when I do, I’d rather it take less than a week.” He crushed another husk. “Word is the trip would take no more than a day by rail.”

Mak gasped. “How fast are these damned things?”

“Fast,” Larryk said. “But most of the time is made up by the rail cutting through mountains or over lakes and such.”

Mak shook his head but found no real objection. He raised his glass and halted before whiskey touched lip as the door swung open.

A northerner walked in, about the same age as Mak. A well-built man, who wore the same black vest with off-centered buttons. Gold instead of brass. Though he’d walked through the dusty town, his clothing was somehow as clean as when freshly tailored.

The card-playing men turned to the new patron to utter their joke. “I’m not the fella you’re looking for!” Their laughter died quickly once the northerner regarded them with un-narrowed eyes, seemingly unfazed by the thick stew of smoke. He ignored them as if he was used to rowdy strangers and sauntered to the bar, not far from Mak. He removed his dark hat in what might have been a gesture of greeting.

“Hand me a Sir Ranington, good man.” The northerner chose a stool and placed his hat on the bar as Mak had. His back was turned to the barkeep, so he couldn’t see the odd look Larryk sent his way. He waited patiently and stared at the table of northerners, no doubt feeling at home from their presence. He tapped his hand on the bar rhythmically despite the absence of music. On his wrist was a golden chain that held a silver pendant moulded in the likeness of a lizard.

It seemed a good opportunity for answers. Mak laughed and moved to within one stool of the man, bringing his hat and glass with him. “Not from around here, are you?” He assumed a Sir Ranington was some fancy drink from the city. There wasn’t anything of the sort in Picklewood. “Larryk, get this man a whiskey.” Mak emptied his coin purse into his palm. “I’ll cover…” he counted, “half of it.” He felt the need to be charitable. God taught to do so during times of turmoil. He only wished he’d brought more coin.

The northerner waved a hand. “Do not worry about it, citizen.” It was an odd thing to be called. The northerner spun on his stool and faced Larryk. “I will take care of it, and whatever this good man owes you.” He adjusted his bow-tie. It was black and made of the same cotton as the man’s coat, but it was sprinkled with golden dust, like flour over a heap of dough.

“I’ve already paid, but thanks all the same.” Mak leaned back slightly, uncomfortable in the presence of the bow-tie’s luxury.

The man nodded. He was clean-shaven and blonde with eyes as blue as they came. He looked strong but at the same time, he may have never done a day of hard work in his life. His nails were a bit long, yet clean, and his hair wavy and precisely styled, somehow resisting the oppression of a heavy hat. The lizard chain jingled as he slapped more coins than necessary onto the bar. Things must’ve been expensive in the North if he was willing to pay so much for a single whiskey.

“Cover his next order, then.” The man pointed a thumb in Mak’s direction.

Mak nodded his thanks and offered his hand.

“The name’s Mak.” They shook.

“I am Mister Androck.” Their hands parted.

Larryk poured them each a glass of whiskey and slid them their way. Mak drained his current drink and set the glass rim-down on the bar. The tastes were similar to the smell, but somehow better. Oak overpowered all else at first, but after the swallow, his mouth tingled with cinnamon, honey, and pleasant fruits, like apples and pears, all accented by the heffor syrup and the burning kick of the alcohol.

“Is it that obvious?” Mr. Androck eyed his drink suspiciously. “That I am from abroad, I mean.”

The conversation was hopeful. A northerner who did not seem too in love with himself to be civil with the dregs of the South. “Do I really need to answer that?” Mak asked rhetorically.

Mr. Androck laughed and put the cup to his lips, ready to chug the whole thing back.

“Wait!” Mak rose his hands as if the man were about to ingest poison. “This is Larryk’s whiskey. You can’t just drink it like it’s water or… whatever a Sir Ranington is. You need to savour it, and that starts with your nose.”

“Smell it?” Androck stared into the cup of amber liquid with a crooked brow.

“Appreciate the drink,” Mak said. “You taste with more than your mouth, you know.”

Mister Androck smiled. “I always like to learn about small town and country culture.” He jammed his nose into the cup and inhaled deeply.

“It’s not country culture,” Mak said. “It’s just Larryk’s whiskey.”

The northerner jerked his nose free of the cup and coughed. His face was puckered as though he’d bitten a lime.

Mak chuckled. “Smoke has no effect, but the smell of a perfectly crafted drink nearly floors you?” He sipped his whiskey. “City folk make me laugh.”

“Not city folk,” Androck said, his voice weak from coughing. “It’s folk who don’t drink often.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Androck placed his cup on the bar and stared at it suspiciously. “I grew tired of the bickering. The mayor’s office was nothing but a shouting match, and do not get me started on the bakery. Meaning no offense, good man, the bakery itself is a fine establishment. The company inside made me weary. My people, not yours.”

“What’s happening in the bakery?” Mak took another sip. He would get his answers.

Mister Androck’s eyes flashed his way then back to his drink. “Nothing. One from our party is cousins with the baker, Missus Brelda. She was kind enough to let us stay in her shop. It is cramped, uncomfortable, and there is no privacy, but I suppose one should not complain when a kindhood is done upon him.”

The statement was acknowledged with a nod and a sip. Northern dialect irritated Mak. ‘Kindhood’ was not a word he’d heard before. Their vast vocabulary and ability to read and write made him feel unintelligent for having neither. That they took such skills for granted angered him most.

He’d forgotten Missus Brelda had come from the city. Mister Selder had wooed her by hiring a bandit to mug her, then being the one to rescue her, or so the story went. Now she ran the bakery on her own as he rolled around in his chair spreading more lies to all.

“What do you do for a living, good man?” Androck asked.

A gulp of whiskey burned Mak’s chest as he swallowed. He’d been called “good man” far too many times for one day. “I have a farm.” A farm that your kind want to take away from me. A farm with a hard-working wife and children who only want to be left in peace. “Bit of crops, a few cows, chickens. Just enough to live by, but we can make a little coin depending on harvest.”

“Not much coin this year then, eh?” It sounded like an insult, but the northern cadence snuffed any fire in the remark. It was confusing to speak with them. “Not the easiest of summers. Even in the North. We were lucky though. Warmest summer in my memory, but God made up for it with more rain than usual. Crops grew well on our side of the mountains.”

“That’s fortunate,” Mak said. His pa’s words came to mind. “Want to know if someone is from the city without asking? Talk with them about the weather.” City folk spoke of the weather as if it were just a setting to their day of leisure chosen at random each morning. Rain was a tragedy in the city, especially for women as it undid hours of hair styling. Androck, however, mentioned crops. He was different from the others somehow. “What about you? You one of them Westen Freight boys?”

“I work for the governor in Dogford.” He swirled the liquid in his glass and grimaced at the sight. He’d yet to take a sip since nearly choking on the fumes.

“Doing what?” Mak’s nerves lit up. His knee bounced, and he tapped a finger on the bar for no apparent reason.

The rowdy card players roared in laughter and mocked the disheveled man who won their game as he scooped the pot of coins toward him in a drunken embrace over the table.

Androck threw a look of disapproval over his shoulder in their direction. “I am a cross between an ambassador and a mediator. As we speak, I am here to represent the governor in talks with your mayor.”

“What sort of talks?” Mak was eager but he hid it well. This man clearly had the power to do something about Westen Freight behaviour on both Mak and Daun’s respective property.

“A few things,” Androck said, “I come down here once every month or so. Business and other issues pile up throughout the weeks, and the governor sends me to clear them all up. Your mayor is a good man.”

“Will you be speaking of Westen Freight?”

“Why, yes I will,” Androck seemed impressed, like a mother whose child successfully added two small numbers. “I am surprised you know that. We have made strong efforts to keep it quiet. Representatives of the Westen Freight Railing Company are in town, staying in the bakery like the rest of us. The company has great plans of expansion. It will be wonderful. Journeys that took days before will take hours now. The world is growing smaller by the day, its people, closer.”

It took everything for Mak not to roll his eyes. “Does a smaller world mean losing the rights to one’s own land? There’s still plenty more space to build on. And would you take a damn sip?”

Androck tilted his head. He sipped the whiskey, grimaced as the liquid entered his mouth, but his face changed upon the swallow. His jaw dropped but lips stayed together, and his brows rose. “That is… most excellent.” He knocked on the bar as if it were a door and hailed Larryk who was filling a crate with empty bottles. “Good man, this is a pristine beverage. I shall commend you to acquaintances in the city. All will know of Larryk’s whiskey.”

“Much obliged.” Larryk nodded then brought the crate to a back room behind the rack of bottles.

Mak cringed at the idea of a hundred northerners drinking Larryk’s whiskey. It would be great for the barkeep’s pockets, but he felt as though it would tarnish the brand somehow.

“I am sorry to hear about your land.” Androck stared lustfully at the liquid in his glass. “I fear I cannot do much about it.” He sipped his drink, shook his head in disbelief, “I can, however, bring your case to the governor. There is no certainty that he’d do anything about it, but I can guarantee it will be brought to his attention, good man.”

The answer was nowhere close to satisfactory. Though Androck seemed to understand Mak’s situation without any elaboration, which might have been telling in and of itself. “Thank you, sir. These big companies can’t just walk all over citizens like this. You tell our governor that his people need him.”

“Will do, good man.” Androck finished his drink and leaned in closer. “I can tell you something about Westen Freight.” His eyes narrowed, and he glanced at the table of northerners behind him. “I should probably keep my mouth shut, but you seem a genuinely good man.”

Mak leaned in intently.

“They are not good people,” Androck whispered. “Well, some are.” He shook his head. “I do not know how to say this, nor do I want to say much, but…” he stammered.

Frustration rushed through Mak as the man teased the information.

“They…” He started and stopped again, closed his eyes and exhaled. “I have an operation. A secret one. I—”

The door swung open. Aldren Knester stood sweating in the doorway. “Mister Androck! We need you at the bakery. We have a problem.” He locked eyes with Mak and turned to stone. His long hair was perfect and clean despite the heavy sweat.

The saloon turned silent. Clouds of captive smoke escaped through the open door. The card players sang their joke in unison but were ignored. Mak cursed beneath his breath. The information was nearly his. Which information, he did not know, but it seemed important, and he would take answers of any kind after his morning of questions.

“What sort of problem?” Androck asked.

It was a while before Aldren Knester ripped his eyes from Mak. “It would be best to speak privately.”

“Very well,” Androck turned to Mak and offered his hand. “It was good meet with you, good man.”

Mak shook the hand. “Indeed. Thanks for the drink.” He met Aldren’s eyes and couldn’t help himself. “You going to decide whose land to take next?”

Nervous anticipation hovered over the silent patrons of Larryk’s saloon.

Aldren’s face shook and reddened. “No. But we will continue to build on lands of those who signed their rights over to Westen Freight. Even if they claim to forget doing such a thing.”

“I never signed your damned papers.” Mak shot from his stool. “I would never sign my land away. Especially to northerners.”

One of the Deputy Wives cheered.

“Your words do not sway me,” Aldren said. “The land was signed to Westen Freight. That is all that matters to me. I have a job to do, and that job is to oversee future building sights. I have not the time for a man and his drunken regrets.”

“You calling me a drunkard?” Mak took three hot steps in Aldren’s direction. The large man did not flinch.

Mister Androck kept between them. His hands hovered slightly, ready to deal with any escalation.

“No, good man,” Aldren said. “But it is curious that you would run so quickly to the saloon after witnessing the state of your friend’s home from a crack in a closet door.”

Mak nearly stepped back in shock.

It must have shown in his face, for Aldren laughed. “The shutters were open, you idiot. We heard you speaking before we came in. Why do you think I was so well-behaved? I would have done much worse to that sweet southern slice had you not been there.” He raised a finger. “But I am a patient man. There will be other chances. And if you are stubborn enough, perhaps I will get to know your family, too.”

Mak swung a fist, but Androck caught his arm.

“It is not worth it, good man.” Androck said.

Aldren laughed from his gut. Voices rose throughout the saloon.

“Stay off my land!” Mak commanded. “Get out of our town.”

“He say ‘my’ land,” one of the southern natives laughed, his voice like falling sand.

The northern native dropped his head back, and his mouth creaked open. A hollow guffaw rang through the smoke-filled saloon. “His land.” His laughter overpowered all other sounds in the room. The patrons watched him, mostly in fear. More pine needles rained from his head and piled up around the back feet of his chair.

“Dammit, MalCone,” Larryk’s voice was as calm as always. “What did I tell you?”

MalCone tilted his head in what might have been an apology, but the grin never left his hard face. Cold amber eyes found Mak and regarded him with an unblinking gaze.

Androck’s hold lessened as the native’s stare weakened Mak’s resolve. “Aldren, get out of here. I will join you at the bakery.”

Aldren stared at the native, agape.

“Now!” Androck shouted.

Squeaking wheels sounded. The baker’s crippled husband rolled forward, knowing full well the altercation was over. He settled beside Androck, between Mak and Aldren, no doubt adding the story of how he stopped the fight and saved the saloon to his ever-growing collection of lies.

Aldren’s face relaxed and paled. He left.

“You spend time with foul company,” Mak said.

Androck nodded and released his arm. “I told you I came to the saloon for that very reason.”

“Why do you associate with these men?”

“It pays well.” Androck donned his hat, drained his glass, and left the saloon.

Mak eyed Larryk, apologized, then finished what remained in his glass. The voices in the saloon slowly returned to their prior state of incoherence. Mak returned to his stool and dropped his face into sweaty palms.