Just One Beer and We Head to the Hacienda

A Legions of Lyric tale

Portico Saloon, off Haver Street, Naurlinz, Southern Wisana
11:11pm, Sowenmoon 27th, 456 NE

The Flaming Os (less Gregones), Jinxy, Frigman, Amber and Charalot sat at the rear of the saloon. Amber and Charalot were almost unrecognizable. They had swapped clothes with some of the domestics. Mama Kass had used herbs to dye Amber’s hair a rich nut brown. Charalot was wearing a colourful headscarf in the local Treole style with garish makeup that was becoming smudged.

All of them were crowded into a dim lit booth cluttered with heaps of oyster shells, a platter of fried okra and hush puppies, a third full bottle of bourbon and tankards of ale at various levels of consumption.
They were yelling and laughing at a volume that attempted to overcome the jaunty music.
The gaggle of musicians exuberantly playing cigar box fiddles doing double stops, a washboard, mandolins and a gut bucket bass merged with the dancers. It was all held together, somewhat, by a concertina leading the wailing lyrics and the staccato of spoons played by half the, mostly drunken, audience.
The verses were something about a wooden Sovani but the accent and inebriation obfuscated further comprehension.

7:19pm
It had started a few hours earlier. The group had been the last to leave the warehouse on Stockmans’ Way for Hacienda Bambata south of town. As they plodded on their mounts through the Fawnday throngs on Haver Street. Jinxy, riding in front, turned his horse into the muddy courtyard of the Portico Saloon when Frigman pointed it out.
Although he had been directly ordered by Ricky to not dilly or dally, Jinxy, the ranking officer of the group, dismounted. Jinxy had a reputation as a hooch hound and had been dry for his whole trip. He grinned and whispered, “Come on. Just one beer and we head to the hacienda.”
“Is that an order?” Frigman asked.
“Of course, it’s an order.” Jinxy scowled sarcastically.
Earman, Steev and Rick D. looked back and forth at each other pleasantly defeated with palms raised. Amber and Charalot looked dubiously at the saloon and their guards.
Jinxy looked at the two women, “What? Just one beer.”

The saloon was empty, quiet and cool when they entered a relief from the stifling mugginess. The first round of beer served with spicy wings was refreshing. As was the second… and the third.
11:57pm
But now they had lost count of beers. It was getting late.
Charalot, having never really drank before, had passed out. Jinxy had hopped out on the floor and was gamboling with the crowd. Earman and Rick D. picked at the fried okra as Steev sat half out of it with a big stupid smile.

11:57pm
A pair of thick muscled hands slammed down next to the platter. The three Flaming Os looked up. Worry suddenly replaced their drunken countenances. Steev gave a last slow chomp on his hush puppy.
Ricky was standing there looking quite cross.
Shifting his gaze to the unconscious Charalot but speaking to the men in a low calm voice full of potential malice. “Where… Is… Amber?” The edge of the table cracked a bit as he squeezed.

Rick D. was the first to compose himself. He half stood looking around. “She wus juss here! Sir!”
Gregones, who had come up behind Ricky, looked to the heavens and let out a long whistle. Chazzz stood a bit further off in a wide stance with arms crossed looking at the revelry without comprehension.
Jinxy came swinging by, all smiles, and waved with his one arm. As his pass continued his smile turned to an open mouth and eyes as he noticed the scene at the table.
“She mussa gone to the loo…Sir.” Steev added, failing to bluff casualness.
“Sir, mebbe sheez off with Frigman.” Rick D. Added.
Frigman was also nowhere to be seen.
Earman sat staring down and twiddling his thumbs with pursed lips and hunched shoulders.

Ricky closed his eyes briefly, sucking air into his flared nostrils with a clenched jaw.
“Chazzz, Gregones, you do a rapid search of the building perimeter. I’ll check the jakes. Stay together. Report back here.” The two took off pushing through the crowd.
Quickly reaching behind him, Ricky grabbed a simping Jinxy by the scruff and pulled him close. “You stay here with Earman. Stay. Duffer and Steev…” his voice lowered, “Stop it with the Sir shit.” Voice raising again, “Take missy here. Get her solid on a horse, get ALL your horses ready. Stay there. Understand?”
All four nodded.

As Steev began hauling the limp waif, Ricky began sniffing the gyrating drafts about the room. He instinctively headed towards the back courtyard, the loos.
The air was dense with the scent of a hundred sweating bodies, of the mixed clades of the great unwashed, the cheap perfumes and colognes, rum, tobacco, bourbon, ale, the spicy foods, sawdusted floor, the manure filled front courtyard and some Gensii’s burning cannabis.

Then there it was, just a trace, Amber’s clean and peppery aroma. He followed it and realized his intuition was right. It came on stronger as he came into the cobbled back court.
Half a dozen men stood pissing against the adobe back wall. A few candles burned in jars on rounds of cypress wood. To the left were three small alcoves with canvas curtains for the women. Candle light lit the shadow of an occupant standing and adjusting her skirts in the left alcove. The figure and height matched Amber’s.
Ricky felt himself relax a bit. He followed his sniffer a bit closer. Her scent was there skulking under the earthy smells of the baños.
He stopped about ten feet off to wait for her. Turning his back to the baños out of decency he clasped his hands behind his back and enjoyed the new breeze that was picking up. The full moon was glorious. It framed the silhouette of a sprawling live oak.
Peaceful.
He heard a wolf ripping out lonely howls far in the distance. This was a most unusual sound in these parts. Probably why people think there is a werewolf around, his thoughts rambled, likely just wandered in from afar or someone captured one up north and it got loose here. probably misses its pack.
The tavern odours had faded. Magnolia, rosemary and jasmine scents came from the clumps of foliage. Clever, Ricky mused, around the shitters. There was the obligatory smell of cats.

Women sure can take a long time… He saw the candlelight brighten and start swaying from over his shoulders as he heard Amber coming out. He turned. “Amber…” he stopped speaking. He was going to say “Amber you had us worried.” But it was not Amber. Not even close. The lady looked him askance and gave him a wide birth as she scuttled into the saloon after setting the candle on the stump.

He went on high alert.
He zipped to the baños with nostrils stretched wide.
The strong smell of cat piss hit him as he came to the middle alcove where Amber’s scent trail led. A stench hit him. It was overpowering, nose blinding.
He reached in his belt pouch searching for a cold torch with his left hand as he opened the stall’s curtain with his right. Pulling the cold torch out, he cracked it on and placed in his mouth like a cigar.
As the light began to glow it showed nothing remarkable. Then he saw the dark streaks of a yellowy clear oily substance on the curtain and walls.
He was having a hard time focusing due to the intense smell. Realizing it was the substance giving off the stench, that he had gotten it on his hands and shoulder as he had leaned into the stall looking for clues, he began trying to wipe off the stink oil on an untainted section of the curtain.
Something hard cracked against the back of his head. Before he could react a second blow struck him across the lower back. They were well placed blows and niw his head was swimming. His kidneys sent wracking shudders through his innards.
He turned tearing the curtain in his grasp along with him. He staggered. Another blow came across his ribs followed by another coming down on his forearm as it moved to guard his head.
He tried to toss the canvas at the clubs from the shadows.
Another barrage of bludgeoning came down on him.
Barely putting his arms out, he fell hard as consciousness left him.