seem to be an empty hope, wouldn't it? If all American heroes are like you, I might have simply checked the corner pub in Oxford and spared myself the trouble."
"I reckon," Cora said, nodding. "Like I said, ain't no heroes nowhere. Just folk like you and folk like me."
"Why would James send me to you, then?" Victoria asked. "He certainly believes you to be a hero of sorts."
"George ain't too keen on certain things," Cora said. "Knows a fair bit about some such, but couldn't find his sense if somebody nailed it to his boot. Spent too much time with his nose in a book, like another sorry lump I could name." Her eyes softened for a moment, seeming to stare through the wall. Before Victoria could speak, Cora stirred herself, her eyes refocusing on her visitor. "You want heroes, young missie, you'd best stop by the local boneyard. The only heroes is the ones who don't make it back."
"What does that make you, then?"
"Just an old drunk," Cora said.
"And your combat prowess?"
"Luck and a quick draw."
Desperate, Victoria reached for her last option. "Surely even an old lucky drunk understands and respects the value of money."
Cora barked a laugh. "I reckon I do. Why else would I gotten myself such a fine establishment?"
"You're the proprietor?"
"You bet your pretty little parasol," Cora said. "The Print Shop keeps me well enough to drink away half her profits. The boys out there couldn't bluff to save their own mommas, so they give me some extra whether they plan to or not."
"I'm not talking about poker winnings," Victoria said. "My parents left me a great estate. All you need do is name your price, and it's yours."
Cora shook her head. "You just ain't getting me. I ain't interested in your money or your vengeance. My hunting days is done, and I aim to keep my bones sitting in this saloon until the good Lord sees fit to take me on up to kingdom come. My price is peace and quiet."
With that, Cora opened the door and walked back into the saloon. Victoria heard her chair scrape against the floor as she reclaimed her seat at the table. The young woman leaned against a crate, her legs suddenly unable to hold her up. What was she going to do now? Her last hope was gone, crushed beneath Cora Oglesby's boot like a withered rose. She could gather the remains and continue on, but what good would it do? She had failed her parents again, a final debacle so spectacular it had dragged her halfway around the world. If her relatives ever discovered the true purpose of her trip to America, her humiliation would never end. She might at least continue on to San Francisco so she could say she simply wished to see the great American cities.
Victoria swallowed against the lump in her throat, but it continued to float there, threatening to choke her with her own despair. She fought for composure. Showing any weakness to the ruffians in the next room would be an open invitation for them to attack her. They may not do it here in the open, but they would mark her as an easy target. Cora Oglesby wouldn't protect her. The police, if there were any here, might not be able to save her. England and the Oxford constables were a very long way away.
She had to get out of Albuquerque. Coming here had been a mistake, but hopefully it wouldn't be her last. Trains ran regularly from the station, so she might be able to catch one in the morning. To San Francisco, or perhaps back to Santa Fe. Maybe she could stop by Denver to speak with Father Baez again. If he knew of Cora Oglesby, he might know of other hunters as well. Cora couldn't have been the only one the Catholic churches of America relied on to hunt down demons and monsters when they had need. If that failed, she could return to Oxford and demand that James Townsend's fraternity of scholars hear her plea. They might refuse to help her, but surely there was a decent man or two among them that might point her in the direction of another mercenary.
Her despair subdued for the moment, she took a deep breath to steady herself. Extinguishing the lamp, she crept out of the storeroom. The men largely ignored her, any memory of the earlier scene erased by the endless flow of cards and whiskey. A few