<center>The Life and Times of The Lady</center>
A thick cloud of smoke hung like a blanket over the room, trailing out the open door in thick wisps and spirals, luring weary travelers to its gates. The murmur of low voices mixed with the clank of dirty glasses across a polished bar was a clue to passersby that there was life within the wooden slates of the decrepit building, aided by the presence of horses tied up to a post outside.
Inside, it was a decent shack of a saloon, complete with a piano and plenty of tables for playing cards. There was even an upstairs with five rooms for private entertainment, a chance for lonely men to sample some western hospitality. The beds were rusted to a crumbling brown shade, and they squeaked at the slightest touch, adding a new harmony to the chorus of the building.
The sun was burning directly above the town, signifying high noon, a time when most men left their jobs to grab a drink at this trusty establishment. The regulars flooded in through the swinging doors, mumbling their hellos to each other as they took their usual seats. At the back of the pack, one man trailed, feebly rubbing the edge of his hat between his thumb and forefinger. It was clear from yards away that he was from out of town, and from the look of his tattered business suit, he was lost too.
Shuffling towards the bar, he took his seat, looking at the men on either side of him from the corners of his eyes. A shaky hand wiped the sweat off of his forehead as he used the other to set his hat on the bar.
"No hats on the bar," a gruff voice barked immediately.
Startled, the stranger shot his hand out again, snatching up the hat and placing it on his head. "Sorry..." he said, dropping his eyes to his lap. Each moment, each word was another sign that this man was far away from his comfort zone. No real western man would apologize so quickly for such a trivial thing.
The thin man seated to his right craned his head ever so slightly to the left and asked, "You ain't from 'round 'ere, are ya?" Not waiting for a reply, he leaned back, laughing to himself. "M'name's Paul Richards. I would say it's a pleasure ta meet ya, but then I'd be lyin'."
The foreign man said nothing, sitting wide-eyed and confused. How was he to respond to that? He could barely understand what the man was saying.
Paul paused for a moment, trying to get the man to speak. "Damn," he cursed, furrowing his brow. "Can't ya talk none?" Again, he waited for what he thought was long enough, which was in actuality only a few seconds. "Here, maybe ya need a lil somethin' ta loosen that tongue o'yours."
A shrill whistle shot forth from his lips, and within moments, the barkeep was standing before the pair. "What can I get ya, Paul?" the large man replied, his speech a bit more refined than would be expected. He held a glass in his large, defined palms and was slowly wiping it with a dirty grey towel.
"It ain't fer me. It's fer 'im. I'd say a scotch. Make it a double, too," he ordered. With a nod, the barkeep walked away, grabbing the bottle and pouring the drink.
Seizing the opportunity, the stranger opened his mouth to utter his first words since entering the bar, "My name is Matthew. I'm from Philadelphia." His eyes flickered to Paul's face searching for some kind of reaction or emotion.
"HAHAHAHA!" Paul roared, laughing directly in the man's face. "So ya can talk!" A clink sounded as the glass of scotch was set down. "Hey Max!" Paul called, waving him over with a hand as Matthew sucked the glass dry. The bartender made his way over, raising an eyebrow. "Is The Lady 'ere?" he said quietly, dropping his voice to a whisper.
Max, being a man of few words, did not reply, but simply gave Paul a long, hard look. "I know, I know," Paul continued, answering an unasked question. "But I think she could 'elp 'is sorry a**. He's needing some refinery."
Folding his massive arms across his chest, Max did not look pleased as he spoke, "She doesn't do charity."
"Oh, c'mon, now..." Paul coaxed, but one look from the barkeep ended the conversation abruptly. Cursing under his breath, he took a long drawl off his beer before turning to Matthew and shrugging. "Sorry, man, I was tryin' to set somethin' real nice up fer ya."
"Who is she?" Matthew interjected, coming out of his shell at the mention of a woman. It had been weeks since he had even seen one, and he was a little eager to meet one of such standards.
Paul reclined slightly, stretching his arms over his head before leaning in close. "Well, she's a whore, but--"
"Paul!" another voice scolded, cutting him off midsentence. The man sitting on the other side of Matthew had nearly jumped out of his seat as he spoke. "Watch yourself," he warned. Turning his attentions to the man beside him, he continued much more eloquently, "She's a class act, she is. Always dolled up, speaking in a real refined voice. She's smart as a whip too."
Paul leaned forward and whispered, "She's a Duchess from England! Real refined..."
"No she ain't," the other man argued. "She's a Lady from England. And you shut your trap while I'm telling Marcus a story."
"Matthew," the foreigner corrected.
The other man continued as if he hadn't spoken a whisper. "But she's real different from the other girls. She only takes a few clients, and no funny business. Don't try and play games with her. She won't have it. Most guys she takes have such a good time that they don't ever come back to the bar afterwards. People say she fixes 'em up and sets them on their way back to where ever they came from. See, that's another thing. She only takes strangers."
"Like you," Paul said, laughing mischievously.
"Right," the man continued, shooting Paul an angry glare. "If you have enough cash, you might be lucky enough to meet her upstairs." Winking at Matthew, he turned back to his other companion, immediately picking up where his previous conversation must have left off.
But it was obvious that there were stars shining in Matthew's eyes. He had to have her. It was then that another saloon girl came slinking down the stairs, one stocking rolled at her ankle and her corset partially undone. "Hey there," she said, hopping into his lap. "This is for you." Running one hand down the inside of his jacket, she tucked a note inside his pocket before rising to her feet and climbing back up the stairs, but not before getting a few growls and propositions from the other men in the bar.
Wordlessly, Matthew grabbed the note and read it, only to hurry up the stairs a moment later. Once he was gone, Paul leaned over to the man beside him and said, "Was that 'er?"
"Hell if I know. I ain't never seen her."
Upstairs, the foreigner made his way towards the end of the hall where he could make out the words "The Lady" written in gold calligraphy. Taking a breath, his fingers touched the doorknob, and he gently turned it, peering within.
"First mistake," a dangerously seductive voice cooed, edged in a British accent. "Never enter a lady's room without knocking." The crack of a whip sounded, and the stranger was violently pulled forward into the room, the door slamming shut behind him.
Downstairs, Max flinched at the sound of the whipcrack. "Oh no..." he muttered to himself, compulsively wiping yet another glass.
An hour later and the bar was a ghost town. All the men had gone back to work, and the saloon girls had taken over, lounging in the chairs and playing cards with eachother. Finally setting the glass down, Max took off his apron and slowly climbed the stairs, sighing as he approached his most popular prostitute's door.
Knocking, he waited for a moment before knocking yet again. The door opened slowly, and Max squeezed into the room, cursing immediately. Matthew was lying on the bed with his neck broken.
"He broke the rules so I broke his neck," said the figure sitting in a dark corner of the room. "And probably his heart too." A dark laugh hummed off the walls as Max began checking the man's pulse. "I can assure you he is quite dead," the woman replied, finally stepping into the light.
Her light brown hair was strewn with natural red highlights, giving her hair an orange quality. It was pinned up in ringlets, soft curls falling around her face, giving it a very gentle look. She wore a red corseted gown that fell to the floor, hiding her feet and the array of daggers that were strapped there as well. Her eyes were piercing, entrancing, and a sly smirk played across her lips.
Max rubbed his forehead, muttering to himself. "Cordelia, you can't keep doing this. Do you know how hard it is getting for me to hide these bodies? Not to mention the things it is doing to my conscience..." Sagging against the wall, he looked up at her, eyes full of frustration. "Do you even know who that was?"
Crossing to her vanity, The Lady took a seat, reapplying her lipstick to a thicker deep shade of red. "Does it matter?" she snipped, adjusting a piece of hair that displeased her. "He's just another lost soul who was looking to ravage some poor girl. I say the world's better off without him. If it wasn't me, it would have been some other bandit on the desert." She snapped her lipstick shut, turning to face the barkeep. "Besides, Maxwell, we have an agreement, you know. And it would be hazardous to your health to go back on your word." She pointed a painted red nail at him, waggling it for effect.
"It's not that simple... He was the governor’s son, Cordelia," Max said at last, breath heaving from him now. The vixen turned, tilting her head to one side. "Can you imagine what his parents are going to do once they find out he was slaughtered by some whor--"
She was on him before he could finish the syllable, dagger pointed at his throat. "I don't want to ever hear you say that again," she hissed, eyes burning with rage. "I like you, but I -will- kill you if need be. Don't cross me. Ever." Her moments had been so quick that Max barely had time to catch his breath and nod.
Backing off of him, she returned the dagger to her hair where it had been disguised as a decorative clip. Her open palms smoothed the folds of her dress while Max staggered to his feet. "I can't do this anymore. I can't, Cordelia. I.. I... I..."
"Maxwell?" she said, turning to see the man on his knees clutching his chest ferociously. The barkeep wheezed and puffed, crashing to the ground with a thud. Cordelia watched with half closed eyes as he twitched and rolled until he moved no more. The corner of her mouth twitched in a glimmer of emotion, but she quickly squashed it, focusing on the task at hand.
She could not stay here any longer. Max was right.
In a final act of mercy, Cordelia approached the body of her now deceased partner and lunged a dagger into his throat. Though she would never admit it, she knew that, in doing this, it would seem as though she was the lone culprit. Five minutes later, she had gathered her things and was making her way down the stairs, pulling her red cloak over her shoulders.
"Cordy!" shouted one of the saloon girls as she noticed the red-clad figure approach. "Come play cards with us!" The girl looked like she was sixteen, and she had already been a prostitute for three years.
Walking towards the table, the soft clicks of Cordelia's heels echoed across the wood floors. "Girls..." she said softly, using a far different tone than she was usually accustomed to. "Get the hell out of here. You're all too good to be in this profession." Reaching to her belt, she grabbed a small red bag and dumped the contents on the table: a wad of cash and a shower of gold and silver pieces. "Go be cowgirls or housewives even, but stop doing this."
Picking up her suitcase, Cordelia made her way to the door. She had saddled up her horse and was about to take off when the sixteen year old came running after her. "What about you?" she asked, eyes welling with tears.
Smirking, The Lady only winked as she bid her horse forward, cantering off towards the horizon. It would be five years before the authorities caught her, and by that time, she had a list of crimes that was so long it could rival the Bible.
Standing on the trap door with a noose around her neck, she only smirked, dropping her false English accent for the first time, saying, "I'll see you all in Hell." Taking a bounding leap, she jumped off the scaffold voluntarily, killing herself. She could never give those bastards the satisfaction of saying they were the ones who turned the crank, ending the life of The Red Lady.
It was in that moment that her soul was captured and turned into a stone until a time would come where she would live again. God save us all...
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