Free Clementine by Cherie Priest

shouldn’t meet any trouble—for Indians, Chinamen, and free Negroes were routinely served there without incident, and the hotel owner was correct on that point.
    The accommodations were not first class, but they were not last class either; and although Hainey knew good and well that Barebones had been lying when he professed no vacancy, he didn’t make half the stink about it that he might have, given different circumstances. The captain was exhausted beyond words, and more to the point, Simeon and Lamar were half dead on their feet. Hainey might push himself past the bounds of reason, health, and good sense, but he couldn’t impose any further obligation on his men.
    After all, the Valkyrie wasn’t going anywhere, at least not overnight. They could afford to sleep a few hours better than they could afford to keep pushing east.
    At the High Horse Boarding House and Billiards Hall, two large rooms with two large beds cost the captain six dollars out of pocket. He claimed one room for himself and left the other to his companions, who made a side trip downstairs to buy tobacco and spirits before holing up and settling in for the night.
    Hainey skipped the vices and threw himself into bed without any fanfare.
    When he dreamed, he dreamed of his own ship—and of the clouds, drafts, and passages over the Rockies. He dreamed briefly of Seattle, the walled city filled with gas and peril, and of the giant Andan Cly who had tried to help retrieve the Free Crow when first it was stolen. He also dreamed of the skittering of black birds, shifting their weight back and forth on a tree branch, their tiny claws gripping and scraping the wood.
    But in the back of his head, even when so fogged with such badly needed rest, Croggon Hainey’s exceptional sense of alarm awakened him just enough to wonder if the sound he heard was leftover from sleep…or if it was taking place outside his door. It remained even when his eyes were open—the dragging clicks, but not of birds on branches. It was the sound of someone moving softly and examining the room’s door.
    Or its lock.
    Or its occupant.
    A quick shift in shadow from the door implied feet moving back and forth on its other side; and Hainey, now thoroughly awake, crept from the unfluffed feather bed as quietly as his sizeable bulk would allow. He eschewed his shoes but felt about silently for his gunbelt, and upon finding it, he removed the nearest pistol—a Colt that was always loaded. Automatically, his fingers found the best hold and fitted the gun against his palm.
    He slipped sideways to the wall, and slid against it until he was inches from the door’s frame. He listened hard and detected one man, seemingly alone. The stranger was trying to keep quiet and not doing the very best job; whoever he was, he reached for the knob and gave it a small twist. When the door didn’t yield, he retreated.
    Croggon Hainey slipped his unarmed hand down to the knob, and with two swift motions side by side, he flipped the lock and whipped the door open—then pointed the Colt at approximate head-height, in order to properly reprimand whoever was standing there.
    “What do you want?” he almost hollered, his voice rough with sleep, but his gun-hand steady as a book on a table. He dropped the weapon to the actual head-height of the prowler, who was somewhat shorter than expected.
    The prowler quivered and cringed. He threw his arms up above his head and curled his body in upon itself as he tried to melt into the striped wallpaper behind him. “Sir!” he said in a whisper loud enough to be heard in Jefferson City. “Sir, I didn’t…sir…Barebones sent me, sir!”
    This revelation in no way assured the captain that it was safe or appropriate to lower his weapon, so he didn’t. He eyed the intruder and saw precious little to worry him, but that didn’t set him at ease, either.
    The speaker was a skinny mulatto, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. He was wearing the food-stained apron of a