The Bounty and the Briefcase (Cattlepunk) [WIP]

4 - The Saloon

His best friend had shattered. Martin had slammed it down onto the floor, and it burst into shards, the whiskey soaking into the dark wood.

Martin found that whiskey was the only thing that had ever been loyal to him. People came and went. Whiskey stayed.

Therefore, the drink was his best friend. Except, people don't usually shatter their best friends.

But the emotion that night had been overwhelming.

Martin thought this as he looked out over the railing. Just desert. If there wasn't something interesting happening, Martin's mind would wander to something random. And often unwanted.

He raised one hand from the railing, and looked at his index fingertip. A small cut ran across it. He had been trying to pick up the glass. He had been a wreck.

Martin turned around to see Frances leaning over her side of the car, looking down at her hands, too. She wasn't one to talk. Luckily, neither was he.

He found her help strange. Why did this girl, who had just tried to kill him, decide to accompany him instead? She could have left him to die and taken the briefcase instead. Martin knew the person who would receive it wouldn't care who delivered it. Frances was probably in it for the money.

Money was good and all. But Martin was doing this for a more important reason.

He turned back around and continued to stare out at the sandy landscape, which was slowly giving way to civilized town.

--

Martin wasn't sure if the name "Gasche" sounded ugly or nice. It seemed to have a both an elegant and a rural feel.

The same could be said for the city itself. They only left the train station minutes ago, but Martin had already seen people in straw hats and waistcoats, jeans and bowler hats, bandanas and cravats. As they made their way toward the center of town, Martin became more and more unsure of where they were going.

"Why don't we just take the next train now?" Martin had asked as he and Frances hopped over the train car's railing.

"I need to meet up with somebody," she said, as if it were obvious.

"Who?" Martin looked down at his clothes, suddenly self-conscious about the state of them. His waistcoat was missing, his brown vest had holes, his white shirt sleeves were beige, and his trousers were scratched up.

Meanwhile, Frances looked to be in a far better condition. Her chestnut skin was sandy but free of sweat, and none of her clothing was ruined, only dusty.

He noticed that she was wearing jeans, boots, and a rumpled white shirt, with a sand-colored cloak on it. He also noticed her gauntlets. She hadn't taken them off.

Frances walked down the road briskly, and Martin limped after her as fast as he could.

"And why?" Martin said as cautiously as could.

"Why not?"

Martin could think of several reasons not to.

After a while, Frances said, "If I'm going with you, I may as well take care of a few things."

So now they were zigzagging through streets like a maze, searching for a place Martin had no clue about.