A Fistful of Dragons

Part 3: Job Interview

Three: Job Interview.

Gobber decided to put him up 'on the tab' and fed him a plate of stew that would probably kill him from three different versions of food poisoning. After the meal-washed down with more mead than a sensible man would drink but which was probably the only thing sterilising the ghastly food-Ryder had insisted on cleaning the kitchen just in case he survived the day's meal because he wanted a less hazardous dinner next time.

He had almost finished washing up when the doors of the saloon slammed open and he heard heavy steps clomp into the hostel. He tensed, his hand dropping to the grip of his pistol, fingers unconsciously caressing the cool metal and smooth wood. His lean shape pressed against the wall as he listened and tried to work out who was in the next room.

"That's the last damned thing I need!" a gruff voice growled as a chair creaked alarmingly under some severe weight. Ryder chanced a glance round the door and saw the huge flame-haired shape of the Sheriff sitting on a protesting wooden chair, a grubby glass of Gobber's rotgut sitting on the table in front of him.

"Ye canna prevent drifters comin' in and out, Stoick!" Gobber said reasonably, necking his own shot of 'mead'. He grimaced. "Hmm...he may have been right. This isn't as smooth as I usually like..." Stoick quirked an eyebrow. Gobber's home-brew was the worst liquor for a hundred miles...but there was precious little option either.

"That one seems different...and I don't trust him..."

"Ye don't trust anyone, Stoick," Gobber pointed out reasonably, refilling his glass. The Sheriff stroked his huge beard and sat back, the chair creaking alarmingly. He took a small sip from his drink.

"Well-you didn't have drifters murder your wife and steal your year-old son," he growled. "They were here because Alvin and his Gods-damned gang, attracting scum from all across the badlands! And this new arrival...feels just as dangerous."

"He's a sarky bastard, I'll grant ye that," Gobber grinned. "But there's more tae him that that!"

"He gunned four men down on the street in cold blood!" the Sheriff pointed out, emptying his glass. He coughed. "Odin! Gobber-I should arrest you for attempted murder!" he choked. Ryder felt his lips tilt in a small smile: the mead was truly horrible here.

"Then who would ye talk tae?" the blacksmith asked him grinning. "But the lad had his reasons. Those men shot at his dragon...and the beastie was already on his last legs. The shock and stress may well ha' finished him off...and the lad seems very fond of the dragon..."

"It's only a beast," the Sheriff growled and Ryder's teeth gritted. Red was anything but 'only a beast'. He turned away and slipped out into the yard, heading for the stable and checking on Red. The Nightmare was sleeping quietly, his breathing laboured and skin cooler than usual. Ryder crouched by him for a long time, his hand resting on the muzzle.

"It's okay, bud," he murmured. "I'll get you a Dragon Master, we'll fix you up and then we can get outta this place." Red cracked an eye slightly and the violent yellow glowed slightly in the gloom, the faintest rumble vibrating in his throat. "I know...you saved my life back when...and I'll make sure we find you somewhere safe and warm to settle down." The eyes closed again and Ryder rose agilely. He headed to the hostel...and paused, then clambered up the outside of the house and swung through the window into the small room Gobber had given him. Resting his hat on the bedside table, he kicked his boots off, laced his hands behind his head as he lay back on the hard bed and immediately dropped asleep.

oOo

Morning saw him up with the dawn, checking on Red, stretching and making breakfast. Gobber ambled downstairs to find fried ham and eggs and freshly brewed coffee. The blacksmith gaped as Ryder jerked his head and the hotelier stared in shock: the saloon had been swept, the bar washed down and polished and the carpet straightened and beaten.