What Good Men Do

by RP Mickler

Maeve’s rifle was old and plain — a percussion-fired Hawken — the kind kept more to threaten than kill. She half-cocked the weapon, the soft click settling louder than she would’ve preferred. “In the parlor,” she whispered. “Keep your head down, an’ snuff out that lantern.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tala slipped out from behind Maeve’s high-backed sitting chair to lower the oil lamp resting on a side table to a dull hue.

Her back against the wall, Maeve eased the curtain aside with two fingers to glance out the window. The Half-Moon Saloon’s muddy courtyard lay in shadow where lantern light spilled from the proprietor’s apartment next door; Silas took odd hours and would often stay up late into the morning. Hired as the Half-Moon’s barmaid, Maeve and Silas shared a double house behind the saloon, an arrangement that suited her well enough, until tonight.

As the parlor’s lantern dimmed, Maeve’s freckled, ginger features receded into darkness. Her eyes narrowed. “Nothin’. Nobody. Naught a horse nor man. Convinced you were followed, aye?”

Tala knelt, hands folded tight in her skirts, her thick black braids cascading down to her ankles. “Not followed. Tracked more like it, ma’am.”

Maeve glanced back over her shoulder before repositioning the butt of her rifle. “Where?”

“Saw them where the main road thins, Mrs. Calder,” Tala went on, her voice low, wavering.

“Ms.” Brushing her curls out of her eyes, Maeve’s attention turned to the window. “Don’t see no man in here, d’you?”

“No, no, ma’am.” Tala’s expression reddened, turning ashamed. “White men don’t look the same when they’re alone. They ride different, y’know, when they’re in packs.”

“How many?”

Tala shook her head, stooping lower, hiding now behind the high back of the sitting chair. “Three, or four. One leader. The others followed. I said I had business with the druggist. I slipped inside, and stayed put, ‘til he told me to leave.”

Maeve’s eyes were glued to the yard. “Edmund Crowley’s a decent sort, slow as cold treacle, though. Mind’s always on his own trousers and whether they’re sittin’ right. He wouldn’t notice Death if it tripped him.” Maeve turned her head. “You’re right to find me, Tala. Square an’ proper. Y’can’t trust no man in moonlight.”

Tala lifted her chin to meet Maeve’s large, brown eyes, her fear packed down like clay. “Knew better than to run. Mother told me once runnin’ only teaches them how to chase. Wolves are trained by rabbits.”

Maeve turned away from the window to lean her rifle against the wall behind the door. Crossing the room, she extended her arms to Tala, encouraging her to stand. “An’ the papers? You’ve still got ‘em on ye?”

Rising, Tala patted her leather satchel, slow and careful, indicating where they were through a gesture, as if the dark might steal them away. Lifting the flap, she drew out an oilskin-wrapped packet bound in twine, creased soft from generations of reuse. “Yes, ma’am. Names. Marks. Maps. Lines laid twice, so there’d be no mistaking them.”

Tala’s people, the Paiute, had come to terms with the Union early, setting down claims to land and ore before Nevada could name itself a state. Ailing, Tala’s grandfather put the papers in her hands and sent her east to Carson City, the Union’s seat, to see them answered and sealed. Those pages were signed with more than ink. It was the blood of her people. They were what stood between the Paiute and erasure.

Maeve stilled Tala’s hand, cupping it in her own. “Aye, that’ll be what they’re huntin’, darlin’. Takin’ your womanhood would only be the frostin’ on their cake.”

‍ ‍The girl’s kind enough, but her stupid got in the way of good sense, Maeve thought, encouraging Tala to sit in the chair. It was foolish — naïve, maybe — for Tala to bring the papers into a saloon and speak of them aloud. But she’d been raised to believe honesty was a way through the world. She hadn’t known how hungry men built this place on greedy appetites, unprepared for the wickedness of white men who saw her truth as an opportunity. It wasn’t a far stretch to see where the Paiutes’ claim to the Comstock Lode would syphon wealth from the white men of Virginia City. There were plenty of men who’d kill Tala to keep those articles out of the hands of the Union.

Tala’s mouth gaped open, only now realizing the shape of her trouble. She hugged the packet against her ribs. “Ms. Calder, I-I didn’t think—”

Maeve had tried to stop her that afternoon in the Half-Moon. She told Tala to keep quiet, to stop talking, to let men think her empty-headed and forgettable. Maeve had been the only woman there, and in a room like that, it made her the only place Tala could turn.

She caressed Tala’s cheek. “Quiet, girl. Those papers are all that keep your way of life. You must mind it.” Maeve gripped Tala’s hands. “Mind it like it’s your last breath.”

Tala’s breath hitched hard, sharp enough to hurt. She turned her face away, pressing her knuckles into her teeth as if she could hold her regret inside, but it slipped through anyway, collapsing into tears. “I promised him,” she sobbed, her words coming out jagged and crooked. She clutched the packet. “He put them into my hands and said that I had my mother’s walk. Fast. Filled with direction. Guided by spirit.”  She swallowed hard, eyes wet but fierce. She looked to the ceiling and placed a palm over her chest. “Tɨmɨ́dzi, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to shame you. I didn’t mean to be careless. Máa, please help me.” The words departed like prayer, and she bowed her head as if they might still be listening.

Maeve rose steadily, joints stiff, the parlor still. Above the dormant hearth, hung a painting, its gilt frame dulled by distance and time. A proud woman — chin high, defiant, frozen under layers of oil and wax, her dark amber hair pinned neat — posed before Ireland’s fields of lush, rolling green.

That painting had crossed oceans and deserts, caged in plywood and wrapped in wool and fear, borne on the backs of exiles until it came to rest here. It was a reminder and a promise. A record of what was taken and what had survived.

Maeve felt an ache, a pull, something both painful and familiar, for she, too, had lived Tala’s story, its ashes long settled into the marrow. Her home was also taken by men burdened with empty promises. Her life, what it might have been, was also upended.

“She looks like you,” Tala whimpered, wiping her eyes.

“Me Ma, when she was fifteen,” Maeve said, her bottom lip quivering. “Painted as beautifully as you see her there, all fancy an’ lace, on land she didn’t own, yet her heart belonged to.”

Maeve’s mother hadn’t left Ireland for want of adventure, but she, like others, had been pressed out, made small, told there was no room left for her kind.

Returning the packet to her satchel, Tala stood to carefully take Maeve’s arm. “My mother said the land has memory, Ms. Calder. It never forgets who loved it first.”

When Maeve’s face met hers, both folded in grief, and the shape of things became clear. Her mother’s courage to come to the Colonies was a choice, a choice made again and again, often in solitude, reaffirmed when no one was watching, but when the world was listening.

“No,” Maeve vowed, embracing Tala. “Not again.”

Maeve gripped Tala’s shoulders, drawing back enough to look her in the eye. “You’ll bide here the night — no qualms; y’hear me? Come first light, we ride. A horse’ll carry us quicker than any pair o’ feet, an’ we’ll be in Carson City before the day’s well on.”

Resigned, Tala wiped her face with the heel of her hand, then stood on her toes to press her forehead to Maeve’s. “Yes,” she said, drawing a steady breath. “Grandfather says, When the ground shifts, you follow those who know where to stand.”

A knock at the door came hard, wood striking wood with a sound that jumped the room. “Maeve?”

“Silas!” Maeve hissed. “Into the bedroom with you! Go!”

Tala stiffened, and Maeve felt her heart kick. She escorted Tala to her bedroom door and closed it behind her.

“Maeve?” Another knock followed, firmer now. Louder. Silas’ voice echoed. Not angry. Insistent. Impatient.

“Easy now, Silas,” Maeve called out. “I’ve only two hands God gave me, an’ neither of ‘em were expecting a caller at this hour. What’s a woman to do when she’s dragged from her bed past midnight?”

“Now I don’t mean nothin’ by it,” Silas replied from beyond the door, “but I’ve got one good ear an’, walls thin as they are, I figured you awake, that’s all.”

Maeve froze. Her stomach dropped. Shit. Silas wasn’t a shouting man — he never needed to be — but he was the sort who smiled before putting down his foot. If he found a Paiute woman sheltering under his roof, there’d be no walking it back, no lie big enough to satisfy his biases and opinions. Maeve could see it clear as day: her things thrown in the courtyard by morning, her station in the bar given to another. In her ears, she heard a door shut the way a door slams long before the wood connects with the frame.

She snatched the Hawken from the floor. “I’m here,” she said, resting her shoulder against the door, keeping her voice level while reseating the rifle’s hammer. “What is it, Silas? I’m indecent.”

“No trouble meant,” Silas said evenly. It sounded like he turned away from the door. “Only that I heard talk where there’s usually quiet. You keep your hours regular, Maeve. Thought it right to check, see that everythin’s—”

“Honestly, Silas, I’m glad you did.” Maeve shifted her weight against the door, her fingers tightening on the stock. “I’ve taken badly tonight. Women’s troubles, fierce as they come. Bleedin’, crampin’ somethin’ awful. Patrons won’t miss me, on account it’s a Sunday, but I wouldn’t’ve been at the bar come morn’ even if the world were endin’.”

Silas paused on the other side of the door. Maeve shut her eyes and waited, counting on the lie to hold.

“Alright, alright; I’ll get by, an’ I’ll see you Monday.” Then, lower: “Only thing is, er, some boys were sayin’ there’s an Injun out tonight. Slippin’ through town after dark. Sheriff’s out, an’ he’s got a posse scoutin’ the outskirts of the town.”

Maeve barely breathed.

“Whens I heard, I didn’t like the sound of it,” he continued. “Figured I’d tell you’d best keep your door bolted, what with you alone an’ all. Them red folks don’t know when to mind a curfew.”

Her shoulders slumped as the weight of despair settled in as she recalled something her Da would say: If it ain’t one thing, it’s the devil’s own. A posse meant lanterns, snoops, witnesses — stables and trails watched with imposing questions asked by rude men who’d already figured out all the answers. Dawn was no longer a mercy. They couldn’t wait for the light, and the dark was getting thinner by the minute. They’d have to work fast to beat the sun to the road.

“Well, alright then, Silas; I’ll see you come Monday morn’—”

It was then that another voice came from the yard, low and gruff, mumbling, conferring directly with Silas.

“Well, thing is, Maeve,” Silas replied, his voice changing its tenor, perhaps no longer meant for her alone but still as casual as a shrug. “Edmund Crowley, you know, he mentioned … well, he said a squaw came sniffin’ round his store askin’ where you might be found, an’ he told her, he bein’ a polite gent.”

Maeve lowered her head. The night was starting to lean in, seeping through her door. She gripped her rifle, feeling the truth of it all settle hard in her chest.

They weren’t searching. They were circling.

Silas pressed. “I’m just … concerned, Maeve. Really.”

Sweat drenched her blouse. Maeve didn’t know how many of them were out there, and she didn’t bother guessing: numbers were a luxury for someone who planned to walk away. She slid the Hawken higher, the metal cool and familiar. The memory of her Da’s hands guiding hers along the barrel, his voice echoing in the recesses of her mind. “Draw and you’re done thinkin’. You’ve already decided what you’re going to do. Good men don’t raise a weapon unless they mean to see it fired. Make it count, Mae. One true shot may spare others from harm.”

Maeve blinked the sweat from her eyes. If they meant to take Tala, to storm through her door, they’d have to go through her first. She already drew her line, and she’d promised Tala she’d defend it to the very end.

Maeve lifted her head and spoke to the door, keeping her voice level by force alone, hoping to speak to Silas’s better natures. “You remember how we met, don’t’ya, Silas?”

“Maeve—”

“You’d three men quit on you in a week — three! — an’ I stepped in, no questions asked, an’ I kept things runnin’. Kept your books straight. Kept your bar stocked. I kept your customer’s comin’ back.” She shifted her stance, sinking lower than the window and out of sight. “You hired me, you said, ‘cause I knew me mind, an’ knew enough to leave well-enough be. I have never let no trouble fester under your roof, Silas, an’ you an’ the Half Moon’s profited by it, by the Lord’s grace.”

She heard nothing.

“If I tell you all’s in good order, you know it is. Same as it’s always been between us. Same as it’ll always be.”

Maeve’s pulse climbed into her throat. Her heart pounded so loud she feared it might give her away. She pictured the door giving in, the frame caving, wood splintering, and she instinctively adjusted her footing, preparing for the moment she might have to fire. She waited, counting time.

“G’night, Maeve,” Silas called out.

Maeve exhaled.

Speaking elsewhere, Silas’s voice trailed off. “No, no, Henry, you come with me. The girl’s got to be somewhere else. Let’s go tell Hank.”

Maeve sank to the floor with her back against the door, her breath shallow and uneven. She winced. Tears flowed. She bowed her head with one hand pressed to her mouth where she whispered to God, thanking Him not for mercy, but for being seen, to be recognized as a woman — as a person — who’d earned Silas’s trust. Silas wasn’t a perfect man, not by any measure, but in an imperfect moment, he chose her over suspicion and hysteria. She’d never forget it.

The nighttime loosened its grip, the weight lifted, and for a brief minute, it was enough.

“Tala!” Leaving her rifle behind, Maeve launched to her feet to race across the narrow room in three strides. She found Tala folded in her bedroom’s corner, knees drawn tight, shaking, and upon seeing Maeve, Tala collapsed into heaving sobs, terror seizing her tight. Maeve rushed to embrace her. “It’s okay. It’s passed. It’s just us now. Just us.”

Unraveled, Tala could barely speak. “C-Carson City?”

“Now! We’re goin’ now, Tala,” Maeve said. “No waitin’. Not for light. Not for nobody.”

Maeve retrieved a wool poncho from her wardrobe, its weave thick and weathered, a gift once pressed into her hands by a Paiute trader passing through Virginia City with a cart of blankets. Maeve recalled the old man insisted. He said she’d need it to keep her warm on a cold night, when hope seemed far away. Maeve pressed it against the contours of her body, wondering how the old man could’ve known.

Donning a wide-brimmed slouch hat, Maeve and Tala slipped out the door and crossed the courtyard low and quick, their boots finding dry soil amongst the mud. In the stable, a chestnut-colored mustang gelding named Brannock shifted and snorted before calming, as if recognizing Maeve by smell. Maeve worked by touch, slapping the saddle on, cinching it tight, and buckling the tack without a sound. Climbing Brannock, she reached out and pulled Tala up with her into the saddle.

“Easy now,” Maeve soothed, reaching for the reins.

“Maeve.”

A shadow leaned against the frame of the stable’s doorway, his hat tipped back enough to show his eyes reflecting concern, hurt.

Maeve swallowed, her hands tightening. “Silas.”

He hadn’t followed them in haste; there was breath in him, no evidence he’d given a chase. Just patience.

“M-Ms. Calder—”

“Quiet, Tala.”

Brannock shifted beneath them, anxiously sensing the change, then stilled.

Silas didn’t move. He simply stood there, blocking nothing, offering nothing, letting the space and silence do the work until he exhaled slowly, heavy with decision. “I needn’t know. I don’t want explanations. Truly, whatever business you got, that business is yours.” Then his voice softened. “I just need to … are you alright?”

Maeve nodded once, her face shrouded by shadow. “I am,” she said, “but there’s a time a man, er, a woman, can’t turn a blind eye to what’s in front of her. Sufferin’ don’t ask for permission, Silas. It just shows up. An’ if you’ve got the means to answer it, ye do. Ye just do.”

Silas held her gaze a moment longer, his eyes trailing skeptically behind her to Tala’s, then he stepped away from the stable door, just enough. “Monday?”

“Monday,” Maeve confirmed, tipping her hat, then set her heels into Brannock’s sides. The gelding surged without protest, hooves striking hard, bursting from the stable in a galloping rush. Wind caught Maeve’s poncho and lifted it like a waving, living thing. The night opened wide, and they crossed the yard into the road into a dead sprint.

Maeve didn’t look back. She didn’t look for Silas. She didn’t stop. She had her finger on the trigger, and she fired, maybe sparing Tala from harm, maybe not, but it’s what good men do. She held fast and let the horse do what it needed, carrying them out of reach before doubt could ever catch up.