no matter what he is, he's tied in to this whole mess. Maybe he ain't no more than a ghost now, but he can still talk, and I aim to make sure he does."
Ben looked puzzled. "How do you plan to make a ghost talk that don't want to? Ain't like you can smack him across the head or shoot off his fingers."
"I'll work something out," Cora said. "If nothing else, I'll challenge him to a drinking competition."
"Can't you be serious about this?" Ben said.
"Never said I wasn't," Cora said. "We ain't getting nowhere fussing like a pair of old fools. Run along and help the marshal and leave Boots to me."
Ben looked at her for a long moment, then turned and left. Cora counted the silver bullets in her ammo belt before taking one last look around the room. Everything was as ready as they could make it. If the vampires attacked tonight, they would at least be able to fall back here and fight. If they were singled out, that is. She had no reason to think they would be, but it never hurt to be prepared.
Cora put the horses to bed in the hotel's stable before walking over to the Pioneer. Overhead, the sun drifted toward the western peaks, lighting the few clouds in the sky aflame. Her fingers curled into fists as she walked, remembering the unearthly chill of the wendigo. The lesser vampires and their leader, the nosferatu, were powerful and deadly, but at least they couldn't freeze her limbs like that. They preferred the blood of their victims hot and spurting. That thought brought an uneasy chill of its own, and she pulled her coat close around her.
The Pioneer was in full swing at this time of night. Every table was crowded with miners and businessmen playing cards for their day's wages as ladies from the Purdy hung on their arms. Through the din of voices, she could hear the plinking of the saloon's piano. A row of miners in denim pants and thick coats stood along the bar, their backs to the door. Serving girls threaded through the clouds of cigarette smoke with trays of whiskey, coffee, and cider.
Cora stood at the door, her arms folded across her chest. This place would be easy pickings for a pack of vampires, and the Pioneer was only one of dozens of saloons in Leadville. Even if they had all of Duggan's deputies and all of James Townsend's servants-turned-hunters, they couldn't hope to defend everyone in town. If the vampires attacked tonight, people would die. They could only hope to find the bodies and dispose of them before they turned.
Heaving a sigh, she began sifting through the many faces, searching for the round red one that belonged to the bartender. Having no luck, she tapped on the shoulder of a man standing by the door.
"You seen Boots?" she asked, raising her voice over the noise.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," the man said, betraying a crisp Irish accent. His brown hair hung in wavy locks on either side of his face.
"Boots," she said again. "Have you seen him?"
"Quite a few pairs in my day," he said, "and all of them dishonest." He smiled at Cora's puzzled look. "You've never met a boot that lies?"
"Can't say I have," Cora said, looking around for someone a little less drunk to help her. She was about to step away from the odd Irishman when he caught her arm.
"Men are like boots, miss," he said. "Don't you trust them. If you must trust anything, trust that." He pointed to a sign hanging above the piano, which read Please do not shoot the pianist. He is trying his best. "That is the only sensible piece of art criticism I have ever seen," the man said with a chuckle. With that, he let go of her arm and settled back against the wall. She offered him a polite smile before retreating into the crowd.
As she searched for the bartender, she reflected on the eccentricities of foreigners. James Townsend was bad enough, with his tea and his fancy speaker down in Denver, and even he had never talked about art criticism or dishonest boots. Cora had never had time or money for any sort of art, and her taste in music was limited to whatever instruments the local saloon happened to own. She couldn't imagine anyone bothering to write criticism about either one.
After a few minutes of searching around the gambling tables,