A short, roundish woman came out of the kitchen, bowed to them and said, “Gentlemen, I’m Betsy, this evening’s entertainment. Enjoy!” She sat down at the organ and began playing an old mule folk song that sounded vaguely familiar to Duncan.
It was uncomfortably loud, making their discussion difficult.
“No thanks!” Duncan yelled into her back, but his voice was lost in the song.
“Listen,” Chester said, elevating his voice, “I’ve seen too many defy the railroad and get turned into hamburger. I spoke with Lord Henneson before, and you all know what happened to him. So tell me how it’s different this time. Why should we trust that you can pull this off?”
Betsy was hitting the chorus of the song, nearly drowning out Chester’s words.
The outside door flung open, cascading a sheet of water on the floor. A hooded woman wearing a heavy coat came in, the bulge of a weapon clearly visible underneath. Duncan and the three mules slowly pulled their pistols out. Venter’s knuckles were white as his other hand gripped the tabletop.
The woman dropped her hood, showing raven hair with a streak of blue.
Duncan signed in relief. “Everyone don’t worry. Calm down. This is Cecile—she is Quebecois—from one of our northern Spoke allies. She’s with me.”
The three mules slowly put away their guns but still eyed Cecile carefully. Cecile looked around the room, frowned at the woman playing the music, and then walked over to them. She pulled something out from her coat and dropped it on the table. It was about the size of a shoebox. It had four propellers, two of them warped, and the middle looked to be caved in and covered in soot.
“Attention,” Cecile said. “Gail’s eyes and ears are everywhere. We found this one out on the main road and took it down.”
The mules glared at the defunct machine with a mixture of confusion and repugnance.
Duncan said, “Cecile, I’m so glad you made it back. I have many questions, but first let me introduce you to—”
The outer door opened again. In walked another hooded figure in a large coat. A flash of lightning lit up the night behind him before the door shut again.
Betsy was singing a more upbeat song, seemingly inspired by the inclement weather.
The man unhooded himself, revealing a tired looking youth with a spotted cheek. It was Owen.
“We’re all clear,” Owen said, as he walked over to the table.
Arsalan suddenly burst out of his chair and tackled Owen, jutting a knife toward his throat and pushing his face into the floor. “I know this one!” Arsalan exclaimed. “He’s with the railroad.”
“Whoa, whoa!” said Duncan, throwing his chair to the floor as he stood up.
“No, he’s not!” said Cecile, her hands out in a gesture of calm.
Chester didn’t move. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. Venter had his gun out in his hand, and his head was pivoting at everyone in the room.
Owen managed to squeeze a few distorted words out onto the floor in front of him. “If you get off me… I can explain.”
“Why should I?” Arsalan asked.
Ralph came out from the back with three more beers. Everyone froze in place. Ralph glanced obliquely at the two men tussling on the floor as he placed the beers on the table. “The rules are simple. You make a mess, you clean it up. You break something, you pay for it.” He smiled and said, “cheers,” then turned and left to go back to the kitchen.
“Explain yourself, Owen,” Chester said.
Arsalan loosened his grip around Owen’s neck enough so he could speak. They all leaned in to hear Owen over the loud organ notes strumming behind them.
“They stabbed me,” he said. “They stabbed me in the leg and left me for dead in Yorktown.”
“Yorktown?” Arsalan said. “What the hell is he talking about? I’ll gut you right here and now—”
“No, you won’t,” Chester said. “Let him go. I was in Yorktown with him. I believe him. He’s not like the others.”
Slowly, Arsalan took his knife away from Owen’s throat. Owen massaged his neck and put some distance between him and Arsalan.
“Everything is clear outside, Cecile,” Owen croaked, keeping his eyes on his assailant. Owen took a seat near Duncan.
“Okay, ca suffit, enough playing around,” Cecile said. “What’s this all about, Duncan?”
The noise in the room was grating on Duncan’s nerves, as if the tension wasn’t enough already. He looked over to the back of the room and the man in the corner was still in the same position, slumped over his plate, his hair strewn into the crumbs of his meal. Was he dead? How could he stay asleep with all this racket?
Duncan tried to think of the easiest way to explain the situation. “Things are falling apart in Seeville. We need these mules to help us get into the Barnyard as early as tomorrow, to… accomplish the objective you identified in your letter. But they want to be sure we are the right horse to win. They want to be sure we have a good chance of being successful.”
Cecile raised her eyebrows. She took a chair and straddled it, the back of it facing them.
“D’accord. Well, beyond whatever Duncan has told you, we have about a hundred more Quebecois coming in on the train tomorrow, although they may be too late.”
“Too late?” Arsalan asked.
Ralph came out of the kitchen again. “Everything good here? Your food should be ready soon.”
“A couple more beers, please,” Duncan said, “and is there any way we could ask Betsy to take a break? We’re trying to have a conversation…”
Duncan trailed off as he saw Venter wince. Arsalan also shook his head and interjected, “You don’t want to do that.”
“What do you mean?” Duncan asked.
Ralph’s courteous smile vanished. He said, “Let me get the manager to see what he says.” Then he reached under his apron and pulled out a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun and leveled it at Duncan. The mules recoiled from the table, grating their chairs on the floor as they pushed back.
Duncan threw up his hands. “Whoa, whoa!”
“This here is the manager,” Ralph said. “And he says we have another rule here at the Broken Spoke. No matter the mess, no matter who’s here, the show must go on. You got it?”
Betsy was belting out a new song in the background.
“Fine, fine.” Duncan said, his eyes wide, his hands still up. He felt like his ribs might shatter, his heart was pumping so hard.