If the stares of every rough man and woman of the night who had gone quiet at Bonnie's entrance were a physical thing, they would have been daggers driving deep into her back.
She pulled her shoulders in. The weight of all those eyes was exhausting—but the uncertainty was worse. Bonnie was desperate, after all. She needed money and information. She needed to survive, even though she was completely alone in a room full of armed strangers.
She moved between the wooden tables cluttered with cheap liquor bottles, sweaty men playing cards, and women in low-cut dresses. Her boots echoed against the floorboards.
Every eye followed her until she stopped at the bar in front of the bartender.
The man had a towel draped over his shoulder and looked far too serious and rough to meet directly in the eye. He leaned forward against the bar and spoke.
"What'll it be, girl?"
Bonnie glanced to the side. The same knot she'd felt in her throat when her father confronted her had found its way back. All those staring faces that had gone silent only made everything worse.
She tried to speak, but nothing came out.
'Come on. Just talk, Bonnie. It's not that hard. Every human being has a mouth—we use it to communicate, especially when we need information.'
She closed her eyes. She had already psyched herself up for this! So why couldn't she just open her mouth?!
"I… um… Could I get a glass of water?" she finally said.
The whole room burst out laughing. They'd watched a serious, blood-stained girl with a wound and a gun on her hip walk through the door and kill the mood entirely—only to turn out to be a shy little thing asking for water.
It was plain as day that she was a high-society girl from somewhere, who had somehow stumbled headfirst into the outlaw's ditch.
The bartender sighed. He reached for one of the bottles behind him—which was most certainly not water—and poured a small measure into a short glass.
"No water here. But there's this. You want it?"
Bonnie stared at the glass. That was liquor. Of course it was.
'I used to be old enough to drink before I came to this world—but I'm not sure this body can handle alcohol…'
And yet, everyone was still watching her, and the pressure was too much. Bonnie ended up picking up the small glass between her slender fingers.
Expectations were high. Everyone was waiting for her to drink—so was Bonnie, for that matter—but saying it and doing it were very different things. For one thing, she couldn't afford to be drunk while being… her. And if she was going to ask for information, they'd almost certainly make her buy something first, so it didn't seem like there was another option.
'Damn it… Just one shot,' she thought—and brought the glass to her lips, downing it in one go.
Her face scrunched up in disgust. The stuff was bitter and burned all the way down.
It was good garbage.
She shuddered before setting the glass back on the bar. That got the room laughing again, and everyone went back to their own business. Some of them looked less like cowboys and more like outlaws—they had a particular way of eyeing the parts of Bonnie that were worth something.
"So what brings a lady like you out here?" the bartender asked. "Gun on the hip, wound on the arm, blood all over a dress that costs more than this whole building—but that's more common than I'd care to admit."
"Oh… Well… I've had some trouble," she answered flatly, mostly because her throat still burned.
"Trouble, huh. With the law?"
Not sure whether it was safe or not, Bonnie set her hand on the bar. She was still shy—but now that the tension in the room had loosened a little, she felt like she could keep going.
"More or less…" she replied, barely above a whisper. "The truth is I need somewhere I can sell things and make money. I'm in trouble and I need to survive… or at least try to."
The bartender took the glass off the bar and poured another small measure into it.
"So you're an outlaw, then. Which county?"
"Warlock…"
"Hm… I see… That does complicate things," he said, keeping his voice low and his eyes away from anyone nearby who might be listening. "Here's the thing, little lady. Whether you believe it or not, things work very differently out here from that fancy mining county with all its imported high-tech machinery. And I don't know if you've noticed, but you walked in here wearing visible jewelry—some of these vultures already have their eyes on you, which puts you in a very bad spot."
That wasn't good. The bartender kept going.
"You don't strike me as stupid, but you're not sharp either. That makes you a rookie, and these animals already clocked it. You know what that means?"
Bonnie looked at the floor.
'Damn it all. He's right… I was so focused on the money and information that I didn't even think about that. I'm in trouble!'
Without thinking, she tightened her grip on the revolver.
"Don't get me wrong, miss. I'm not looking to help you out of the goodness of my heart—I'm looking to make something off the situation. I'm just a dancing monkey who works for coin. Give me those gold earrings of yours, and I'll give you some Crowns and Marks, a change of clean clothes, a bit of information, and help getting out of here."
'My earrings are worth more than that…'
She knew it—but she didn't have a choice. Her own impatience had led her here, and she had to face that with her chin up. Thinking fast in moments like this was the difference between living and dying, and Bonnie wanted to live.
'This is on me…'
There was no better way to put it. So she took off the earrings and set them on the bar with a firm slap of her hand.
"Throw in some carrots and we have a deal," Bonnie said.
The bartender smiled.
"Now you're talking, miss. You're starting to understand how things work out here. Keep that in mind going forward. I'll take care of everything right now."
He picked up the earrings, stepped out from behind the bar, and headed up the stairs along the side of the room. Bonnie watched him go, eyes narrowed like a warning.
'I'm barely out of one mess and already neck-deep in another. What a dull life I lead…'
She turned back to the freshly poured glass on the bar. She closed her eyes and sighed.
"One more won't kill me."
She picked up the glass and threw it back, shuddering all over again. A trio of cowboys playing cards nearby looked up, surprised by how unbothered she seemed.
'Hmph. Amateurs…'
The bottle was also right there, unattended. Bonnie eyed the liquor with something resembling desire and dragged it toward her with her fingers.
'What's two if there's no three?'
She poured herself another and drank.
A few minutes passed like that. Bonnie had her face down on the bar, idly spinning the empty glass while she waited. The bottle was empty too.
"That old idiot probably robbed me and walked off with my earrings. They're all the same—they all think I'm an easy mark. I'm not an easy mark!" she snapped, slamming her fist on the bar.
The noise startled the cowboys nearby, but they ignored her and went back to their game.
The spectacle of the girl drinking alone in the corner caught the attention of a man in a black poncho and a dark brown hat. His black eyes settled on the flushed face of the redhead, and his stern, vaguely youthful expression softened slightly.
He walked over and leaned against the bar beside her.
"Evening, miss."
"Hm? Who are you?" Bonnie asked.
She was a little drunk, but she was still aware of what was going on around her.
'I can't feel my face. I think I overdid it a little… Anyway, who is this guy and why is he talking to me?'
"Name's Clyde. I work on a ranch with some family near the edge of town. I'm good at shooting coyotes."
Clyde grabbed a bottle and a glass from the bar and glanced over at the other bartender working on the far side. The old man gave Clyde a nod of approval and he poured himself a drink. Then he turned back to Bonnie, who was frowning at him in a way that made her irritation perfectly visible.
'I don't need your life story, I don't care. I'm waiting for that old brute to come back.'
"Surprised to see someone as young as you out here, given the disappearances lately. I have a little sister at home—my father's terrified something might happen to her."
That last part got Bonnie's attention.
"Wait— did you say disappearances? That's something I want to hear about. Tell me more!"
"Easy, miss. You haven't even told me your name yet."
"Oh— I'm Bonnie. And I guess I'm pretty good with a revolver."
"Bonnie, huh. Not every day you see a woman your age carrying a gun. Must've been a rough road to end up like this. Well—it doesn't seem like you want my sympathy, so I'll get straight to the point. This is something you'd want to know."
Clyde took a drink and went on.
"Over the past few months, girls between fifteen and eighteen have been going missing. A small number of them have turned up in remote locations with their throats cut and covered in goat's blood on stone pedestals. Word is they're being used in rituals to worship the Devil. The whole thing is deeply unsettling, to be honest. The Sheriff's been all over the investigation."
Bonnie brought her hand to her throat.
'Throats cut, goat's blood… the Devil…'
That cult had meant to do the same thing to her. The realization hit with a strange, bone-deep feeling of déjà vu.
"That's exactly why it surprised me to see you out here alone at this hour," Clyde added. "Frankly, it's pretty dangerous for girls your age. You shouldn't be out here."
"Sure. I can take care of myself, so I don't really worry about it."
"Fair enough. And—"
Clyde was cut off by the old bartender coming back down the stairs. He was carrying a large bag in one hand and a sack over his shoulder.
"Back again, little lady. Oh— Clyde, son. Didn't see you there. Watching over stray damsels again, as usual?"
"It's not something I make a habit of," Clyde answered, sliding a couple of Marks across the bar. "That covers the drinks I helped myself to. Keep up the good work, old man. My shift's done, so I'm heading out for some rest."
With a casual tip of his hat, Clyde said his goodbyes.
"See you around, Bonnie."
When the young man was gone, Bonnie turned to the bartender with fire in her eyes.
"You took forever."
"I know, I know. Had to dig around for everything myself. I'm a man of my word, though—so here's the whole deal. The clothes might run a little big on you, but you can take them in later. And here are your carrots—pricey little things, but you're lucky I had any. That horse of yours eats well."
"You don't think something's missing?"
"Right, right. I'll get you out through the back door. As for the information, ask me whatever you want," the bartender said, his expression easy and relaxed.
That irritated Bonnie slightly.
'At least I know a little more about the disappearances thanks to that guy earlier—but I'm still missing pieces.'
She shaped her questions around that.
"Why is there a cult out here sacrificing girls in the Devil's name?"
The bartender's face changed the instant he heard that question.