Lila Mae Rottingham observed Paul and Jerry’s Saloon, hardly able to contain her disgust. She was surprised that the pipe smoke did not alert the attention of the fire brigade…given that this Podunk town even had one. The once cheery wallpaper was caked in dust and stained with nicotine, various paintings and photographs unrecognizable due to wounds and scarring from the bar’s patrons. The hardwood floor was littered with trash and straw, hiding any drink…or blood (she shuddered to think) that may have been spilled in the last week. The patrons at the game tables made her uneasy as they made holes in the back of her head, sniggering and making great strides to get her attention. Easy, girl…you are only here for one thing and you can leave with your head, she thought, taking deep breaths to calm herself.

Her heart dropped when she thought of her dear old father. How the bloody hell did he get help? She gingerly touched the black band around her right sleeve, a sign of mourning in his honor. Since she had not the time to parade around in black and veils, she hoped silently to herself that the band would be enough for him. For now, she was in her Sunday’s best, a blue and white striped, floor-length cotton dress with a matching blazer and a delicate hat. She immediately regretted the decision as soon as the lorry stopped at the famous saloon, being so overdressed with all of the swirling dust from wagon wheels and horse hooves.

The town was bustling with activity, with store and restaurant doors propped open to dispel the unwavering heat. She knew that the three hour train and six hour lorry journey up the winding trail with all of its switchbacks would be worth the hassle as soon as they reached the top. The view was like nothing she had ever seen, even through all of the mountainous journeys she had taken in the past. The sprawling, never-ending desert filled her heart with emotion, pain searing her for a spell when she wished that her father were only here to share the view.

She started when her heaviest trunk fell with a muted thud beside her, as the town’s roads were unpaved. Her indignant look at the driver seemed to slow him for a moment, and he looked at her apologetically. “I’s sorry, missus…but I gots to get goin’. This he’a town don’t take too p’lite to people like…” he faltered for a moment, and Lila held up a hand to stop him. “Say no more. Please help me get to my room and you can leave as soon as you like.” She pointed to the quaint little tavern near the saloon and they started for it together.

Suddenly, a brawl broke out at a nearby table, jarring her from her thoughts. A whirlwind of fists and blood came barreling towards her and she let out a piercing shriek, making her way to a corner in dramatic fashion. Even the fighters were not too wrapped up in their trivial argument to stop and laugh at the girl, the entire back room erupting in hearty laughter at her expense.

Lila had had enough. She climbed on top of a nearby table, seething with rage. “Now listen here!” she shouted over the rude and burly crowd, “I am commissioned by the U.S. government for an expedition through the Verde River Valley.” She unfurled a letter from her purse with a flourish. “I will need help with this journey for an undetermined amount of time.” The men and women around her laughed even harder, and one man started silently lifting her skirts in hopes of getting a peek. A knee-jerk reaction forced a kick at the man with all of her might in the temple and he crumpled to the floor. Lila was not the only one surprised by her actions, and the crowd seemed to sober a bit.

“This is a PAYING GIG. I will give anyone here TWICE their salary per month on the job.” She stopped for a moment to contemplate the brashness of her statement. She knew her family had money, but she hoped that she would have enough for her employees and all of the materials she would need for the journey.

“Who’s with me?”

She let the final question hang in the pin-drop silence, waiting with bated breath for a reply.

He came from the east, and arrived there in Jerome when the sun was just rising. He'd trekked most of the night, taken a nap under a hanging rock in a valley, then rode on in hopes of getting there before all the work was taken up. Frank Gregory knew that there were plenty of people looking for work out this way, west of everything, and that contracts dried up real quick. If it weren't for the utter abundance of work in the great surge west, he probably wouldn't even be able to find a job sweeping a grocery store. Luckily, veterans like himself were in high demand, as most of the fresh blood locked up the first time they got an arrow in their thigh. Frank was no stranger to wounds, both in a fight and in life; he'd cut himself on his knife by accident more than one time. He was clumsy, surely, but he was also smart enough to fight for a job hard enough that he'd trek all night and tire out his horse to do so. Tornado the horse was a good fella; they'd been together for awhile, and there was a chemistry of 'go-go-go' that just made sense between them. And it was on Tornado's hooves that Frank Gregory trotted into Jerome, Arizona for the first time.

First thing he needed was a drink. Old Moses Bridger, a man he had ridden with on several jobs back in New Mexico, told him that the best saloon isn't hard to find in little Jerome. Frank thought he was just being funny, but as it turned out, the one saloon in town was the busiest business venture on the entire street; God only knew what knid of scoundrels were fungating the confines of that building. Jerome wasn't a very charming town, but then again, Frank had been to Denver and nothing had compared since. No indeed, Jerome wouldn't even make his list of top ten towns. He'd seen tent cities during the war that gave off better vibes than this place; he could already smell shit rotting somewhere, and that was a bad omen. The sooner he found work, the sooner he'd be able to high-tail it out of this result of God's vomit. If the alcohol wasn't strong enough, he decided that he would move the hell along, although every mug he'd drank had never let him down west of Arkansas. Oh Lord Almighty, he would never forget his experience with 'Arkansas Fire Water'. Anything east of that is river water compared to these drinks. With a renewed sense of drinking excitement, he tied up Tornado the horse, who immediately went for the water trough, and stepped inside.

Indeed, there was a local specialty: the Dragoon Springs Runoff. The bartender said it was a reference to the battle there, and Frank surely tasted something paranormal as it burned his throat. He was in the middle of his second glass, waiting for a sandwich of some kind to get made, when a young woman burst into the place, proving that she was a little far from from when a fight broke out, and without warning stepped onto a table and began making a speech. Frank watched the whole thing unfold; this was the work that the Mormons had rumored about, but surely this couldn't be the expedition organizer; she had to have been a poster girl hired by the REAL man in charge.

“Who’s with me?”

Frank held his breath as the room went silent. A few chuckles leaked out, some men clapped and applauded her, others howled; if Frank didn't know any better, he heard the Rebel Yell go off. This was a Yankee girl, a young'un who clearly hadn't ever hired anyone in her life. This wasn't the way to go about it; Frank did admire the courage she had to get up and announce everything to everyone; even his balls weren't that big, and he made a bayonet charge at Petersburg. What was apparent, however, was the lack of likewise thinking. Frank knew the type of lowlifes that hung around these watering holes; they weren't about to take her seriously.

"Sing us a song!" One man let loose from Frank's far left.

The one thing that drove Frank up from his chair to help her was the fact that she looked just like he imagined his own daughter would at her age.

"C'mon now, darlin', you'll wann' get down from that table 'fore they use that dress o'yers as a handkerchief," Frank eyed one dirtier man, probably a Mexicano, as he licked his lips. "And use that vest as a flag."

"How much for a kiss?"

Frank hooked the right side of his duster in his hand and tucked it behind a holster squeezing a giant LeMat revolver between its leather lips, trying to intimidate the possible-Mexicano when they locked eyes. "I'm the only one gonn' give you this chance to step down right now without you getting yerself hurt." He raised his left hand close to hers, trying to get her to take it. "Come on down, girl."

"It is tha east, and Juliet is tha sun!" Another man shouted. Frank recognized the saying; it was from a poem, or something. A French man had written it about a thousand years ago, as far as he was concerned. He kept his eyes locked out into the denizens of troublemakers, knowing it didn't take much heat to light these powderkegs.

"Salary?" Asked a woman from the game table. She still sat, unfazed by the tussle that broke out before her, cigar hanging loosely from her mouth. Hell, if someone wasn't going to sock that cheating bastard, then she sure as hell was. Luckily though she wouldn't have to bruise her knuckles as someone beat her to it. The woman was intent to watch the fight, if the sight of a flighty young lady didn't make everyone laugh including her. As she continued, her green eyes and fiery red hair was obscured by her black wide brimmed hat. At least to the lady on the table.

"Lady, most of us don't have a salary to double, and last I checked, twice of nothin' is still nothin'. Hell, some of us are in the hole, aren't we George?" She said, the man beside her grumbled something and then checked his cards again. The woman looked back at the man and shook her head, "Dammit, George, that's why you're broke as shit. Iffin you keep checkin' your cards like that, everyone knows you have a good hand. Fold." She said, chucking her two cards into the center of the table. A queen of hearts, and a eight of diamonds. Decent cards, but nothing stacked up.

"Oooh government sponsored, How fancy," She said with mock excitement, standing up and meeting the woman's gaze. Finally, she sighed and the sardonic air around her dropped. "Verde river valley?" She asked, "That's God's country. At least, it should be, what with all of these damn heathen's runnin' around like they own the place. If you plan on exploring the place for your government, you're going to need God's protection or a quick trigger finger... Neither I suspect you have?" The woman said, circling around to the bar, where the barkeep put down a shot glass and filled it with amber liquid. Apparently, the woman was regular enough for the barkeep to remember her drink. Straight tequila. She was one voice among many others, but hers managed to carry. Probably due to the take-no-shit tone she was using. She seemed somewhat comfortable in the raucous bar, and the men avoided speaking to her like they had to the woman on the table. Probably due to the Peacemaker on her hip.

As she took her shot, a man sidled up to the woman. A newcomer most likely, she had seen him take his drinks and wait for his sandwich before the lady went off the chain. The man looked like he could handle himself, and indeed, had probably had done so in the past. Normally, she'd stop right there and let the man handle all of the hullabaloo, but the lady had presented a job opportunity. A clean one too, one a new christian girl needed to try and stay on the straight and narrow. God had sent her this opportunity, and she was smart enough to see it. Therefore, she had taken an interest in this lady and her job offer.

She took the cigar out of her mouth and downed the glass, followed by a very unladylike grunt. The brutish woman then pointed at the lady, "Charge it to her." Whom she turned around to look at. "You might want accept this gentleman's offer ma'am. These tables aren't what they used to be and I would hate to see you break your neck," She said emotionless as she strode closer to the lady and man. The way she walked, one could call intimidating if they were so inclined. She pushed pass the men and through the gaze of the man, who's cold stare was looking down each patron, waiting for things to get out of hand. Cautious, that one. She liked him.

Once she was upon the woman she stopped and tried to take the paper from her hands. She winked as she tilted her head down and read over the paper (or pretended to read, who knew if she could read or not) she took a drag on the cigar and let the smoke flow out of her mouth.

"Ah... My my, this does look 'fficial. Wonder why our great government wants this. And want you to do it at that. No offense ma'am, but you sure as hell don't look like you belong here," She said handing the paper back to her. "How much for a kiss?" She heard a dirty man say. The woman let her hand fall onto the faux-pearl grip of her peacemaker, much like the man beside her was doing, "Don't be gettin' any funny ideas. She's my employer and meal-ticket, and I'll shoot every late one of ya dead and let God sort ya out before I see her touched. Don't think I haven't done it before," She said, shooting back a venomous glance. Well, that was probably the close to an 'I'm in' the lady was going to get from her. She then turned to the woman and man, "Name's Eleanor Kelly. Elly to friends, sister Elly to pious folk, and that bitch to everyone else, though not to my face," She said, again, eying the ruffians in the bar.

"Now get yer high flutin' ass down before you get us all shot, yeah?

Clinks of glasses and the murmur of dozens of voices created a background noise, punctuated frequently by an occasional whistle, guffaw, or more often a profane exclamation. Yawps went up from the various card tables after each hand was revealed, and as often as not a shouting match would grow out of it. Often, a fistfight. Twice last week, a gunfight. Jeremy was always quick to find something in the kitchen to do whenever that happened.

Mostly he cleaned tables, glasses, vomit off the floor, whatever needed cleaning. A couple times it had gotten so overwhelmingly busy that he was enlisted to help fill anything cup-shaped with booze, for whoever waved a wad of cash at the bar.

Today was fairly busy, but not so much that his services were required at the bar. As usual, he weaved through the tables, dodging elbows and the occasional thrown object, collecting forgotten (or thrown) glasses and wielding his rag at anything that spilled. The usual crowd was there, faces of the no-account residents of Jerome as well as wanderers who frequented the town for its high threshold for filth and blind eye for crime. But there were new faces as well; Jeremy had a keen eye for them, and he noticed a fellow of road-worn appearances who ordered an abhorrent Dragon Springs Runoff, and a sandwich. A woman near the door did not escape his radar either, and his eyes glanced back at her twice to take in her genteel clothing, reserved and dignified in the world he was used to, but screaming for attention in a place like this.

He heard a glass shatter nearby, and he frowned. He would be the one having to clean it up.

"Hey, now, be careful!" he scolded the drunkard who had dropped it.

Most of the time his snide comments would go unnoticed by the saloon's stumbling demographic, but this time the big man to which his criticism had been directed turned his pig-like face toward Jeremy. "Wha'd you say to me, boy?" he rumbled, the stench of alcohol wafting directly into Jeremy's nose.

Jeremy wavered for half a second at the man's look and tone. He opted to swallow the come-back he might have used under different circumstances and retreated to the kitchen to grab the broom and dustpan. The noises from the bar followed him back there, escalating as a fight broke out. He rolled his eyes. A woman's shriek pierced through everything else, and a chorus of laughter followed shortly after. He returned to the main room just in time to see the refined woman he'd noticed earlier leap up onto a table and start shouting into the room about a government-sponsored expedition. While everyone's attention was on her, he used the moment to sweep up the glass under the drunken man's table.

On his way out of the room again he caught another part of her speech. “This is a PAYING GIG. I will give anyone here TWICE their salary per month on the job.” His ears pricked up and he paused in the doorway to the kitchen. His thoughts warred against each other as he stood there and the brash woman paused. Could her offer be real? Was there money behind it? If he went with her, it would probably just be a babysitting job. A useless woman out in the desert on an errand for the big man, without a clue what she was doing. He smiled ruefully at his stupidity for entertaining the idea.

"Who's with me?"

He let the kitchen door swing shut behind him.

"She did what?"

"I ain't kiddin' yer, Injun. I don't think I ever seen such a shave-tail. She done got up on a table, hoicking up her grand skirts about her and said-" Dutch John removed a foul-smelling cigarillo from his mouth to take his voice up a few painfully cracked octaves. "-I gone fork over twice their usual pay to anyone who joins me!"

Ashkii suddenly broke into laughter and his horse, a desert dun called Sik'is, flicked her ears at the noise.

"Who's to tell her what 'usual pay' is?" he said, subconsciously extending a hand over Sik'is' neck to sooth her.

"Well, exactly. I'm tellin' yer, if I were thirty years younger, I'd be rushin' over to 'er like a shot," said Dutch John. His long arthritic fingers satisfied with the quality of the contents of the sack Ashkii had just handed to him, they delved into his jacket pocket to extract a few bank notes from its depths. "These fox furs are as fine as cream gravy, Injun. I ain't sorry to do dealin's with you, not like some of the bilks in this town. You get yer hands on any more, you come to ol' Dutch John ta sell 'em, yer hear?"

With surprising strength, the elderly man dragged the large sack from Sik'is' saddle and slung it over his own shoulder, lending him the effect of a wrinkled snail hefting a burlap shell on his back. Ashkii, who'd counted the notes with as little apparent care as not to appear rude, slipped them into his own pocket and proceeded to tie Sik'is to the wooden hitching post he'd been leaning against.

"You ain't gone go in? It's as bully a deal, as I ever saw," said called Dutch John over his other shoulder as he made his slow way down the street. "That piece of calico dancin' around on that table ain't gone last long if she runs into one o'your kind out there..."

Ashkii shrugged. "There's no rush. Do you see any other Diné around here?"

Dutch John's cackling was soon lost in the crowd and Ashkii palmed a coin to one of the boys who looked after the hitching posts before taking a seat in the shade next to a boarded-up store on the other side of the dusty road. It was true of course; without a substantial amount of firepower (and this was something that this woman, whoever she was, undoubtedly didn't have if she was resorting to yelling out job advertisements whilst standing on a table in a saloon), it would be foolish for anyone other than a very experienced lone tracker to head out into the wilderness without at least some means of communication with the local tribes. In the past, Ashkii had been a happy convenience for such expeditions; whiter than those pesky full-blooded Redskins but still ultimately an Injun. Perfect for not getting one's hands too dirty. He'd be a happy convenience again. For twice his usual price (and then some).

There was another reason he'd not bothered to venture into the saloon, however. The eastern mining company that was slowly chipping all of the copper out of the mountain that loomed over Jerome had brought in a new batch of miners today. Those twenty or so men were currently occupying a large proportion of the tables inside Paul and Jerry's Saloon getting progressively soaked on gin. They'd learn eventually (when more sober), as most did, that Ashkii was a regular fixture in Jerome but now was not the best moment for making introductions. Not if he wanted to keep his nose on the right side of his face. At any other time, he might had risked it for a couple of glasses of Kessler but if Dutch John was right... Well, he'd wait it out and watch for his to-be new employer.

Tugging his hat further down to shade his eyes, Ashkii yawned and took of his jacket, settling down in his shirt-sleeves against the sun-warmed wood.

All of the commotion she caused sent Lila reeling. She felt her face grow hot and her knees weak, her stomach dropping to the floor. She looked toward a bespectacled employee filling glasses, her requesting help silently. He rolled his eyes and entered the back room like nothing happened. It’s like trying to socialize with a pack of javelina! she thought darkly, thinking for a split second that her journey was all for naught.

Suddenly, a man with a duster came to her aid just as one of the least dainty women she’d ever seen snatched the proclamation from her hand. She made a grab for the letter, missed and took the man’s hand to steady herself. “Come on down, girl.” It was less of a command and more of a plea. Lila was grateful that gentlemen still existed in this God-forsaken spit hole. She held his calloused hand and stepped back onto the floor, much to the bleating heathens’ chagrin. She listened intently to the ginger woman’s introduction, over the moon with excitement. “Meal ticket” or not, her first willing employee was in the flesh before her. She was silent for a moment, staring back and forth at the two defenders in awe…until a glass nearly full of liquor came soaring within inches of her head.

Lila cringed, cowering out of harms way before taking both of their hands and leading them out of perdition. Her bravery took her by surprise…then again, so did this whole entire venture into Jerome, right from the very beginning. If they could see me now! She was already teased mercilessly for what exploring she had done with her father, let alone wanting to go through this alone. Her cousins, her aunts and uncles, even the servants begged her to stay in New Jersey with them to live out the rest of her days as peacefully as she liked. Like her father, she thought that wanderlust is not something that can be shaken off. It may have been an impulsive decision to leave everything behind without taking all of the proper precautions, but the urgency she felt to start outweighed her every thought. Each day that went by, she knew time was wasted and all of her father’s hard work would not be dismissed. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Situated as safely as they were going to be on the front porch, Lila gasped for a breath of fresh air. A Native-American fellow was propped up near the door, resting his eyes. It was the first Savage she had ever seen up close and it was curious to her that he was not in his native dress. Nevertheless, she had other matters to attend to and she knew staring was rude. She put on her brightest smile and turned toward her two saviors, gracefully curtseying as a sign of respect.

“Thank you so much! You would think I was fresh buffalo with the way they were going on.” Although she was intelligent, she admitted that her knowledge of Arizona was slim with that statement. Note to self: pick up the Arizona history books. She let her embarrassment pass, smoothing her dress and clearing her throat.

“My name is Lila Mae Rottingham.” She let her hand hang delicately before the pair expectantly. “Pleased to meet you both.”

Frank watched a spiffy cowgirl come to the table's other flank, becoming somewhat protective of the Yankee girl as she realized exactly what she had done. As the girl took his hand and began to step down, the Mexicano threw his whiskey glass at the three, though Frank was sure that it had been directed at him; without skipping a beat, Frank reached down and grabbed a half-full glass from the table the Yankee girl had stood on and threw it back at the man, the glass shattering on the table and spraying the tepid liquid over his front. There was a small commotion from the crowd at the escalation of things, but Frank couldn't appear to take anything they were willing to dish out.

With an eye studying the group as the three began working their way toward the front doors, he heard various taunts for a bigger show of force from him.

"Come on, yanquis, finish what you started!"

"Run away like you did at Fredericksburg, fuckin blue belly!"

"Ah'll trade you a meal for a half hour alone with one of them little lasses!"

Frank made sure his LeMat was still out in the open, where the light could catch the blued steel that had been worn down through the years. He wanted to make sure that the Mexicano wasn't coming after him after clashing so little together, and it was always the Mexicans that were the angriest drunks at the end of the night. Despite however much he may or may not have consumed by this point in the day, Frank made sure he knew that the gun was there, just like he did everybody else who was watching.

Once they cleared the doors, Frank turned back to the girls and tried to assess the situation.

“Thank you so much! You would think I was fresh buffalo with the way they were going on.”

Frank squinted his eyes at the reference, not sure of what to say back.

"Yeah. Real fresh."

“My name is Lila Mae Rottingham.” She let her hand hang delicately before the pair expectantly. “Pleased to meet you both.”

Frank let the other gunslinger, a gal who was clearly Irish, shake hands first. His eyes darted back inside to watch the crowd, when the angry Mexicano stormed out and stuck a finger in Frank's face.

"I ain't keen to your stare, pendejo. You owe me an apology for the glass in my shirt."

"Well, ah ain't keen to yer breath, cerdo. You should step away from here before ah wanna fry some bacon."

"You ain't walkin away from here until I'm satisfied, cowboy!" The man lifted his shirt and revealed a worn-out revolver tucked into his trousers. "And her name is Satisfaction."

"If you've got the guts to get into this with me, Santa Anna, ah'll shoot you down like mah grandpappy shot yers at Veracruz."

The Mexicano threw a wild punch, and Frank ducked down beneath it. He jabbed into the man's ribs a few times before pushing him back with his shoulder. The man stumbled and fell, crashing through the saloon doors and onto the grimy floor as the patrons cleared out so he could land on his ass without intervention. As he picked himself back up, he began tugging at the small, nickel-plated revolver in his waistband, Frank placing his hand on the handle of his own weapon and drawing with a clack-CLAK of the action. He fired as the uncoordinated man cocked his own weapon, firing three times through the doors and into the Mexicano's chest, splintering the wood and cracking loudly against the firm molecules. The Mexicano fell with a fat thud, and Frank slammed his palm down on the hammer of his LeMat hard, indicating that he was now fired up.

"Who else has a problem with mah business, eh?! Ah've got seven more bullets in this gun, who's wants some of it?! Ah've been doing this for twenty years, folks, ah'm ready to do it for twenty more!"

The crowd was despondant and drunk and, perhaps, smelled food being cooked in the kitchen. They muttered to themselves before dispersing back to their seats, which were more comfy than standing around a dead man. Frank looked down at his weapon's holster, uncocked it, and put it back in its place before turning back to the Yankee girl. He took her hand and shook it firmly with both hands.

"Mah name is Franklin Nashville Gregory, and ah think we need to leave this place."