He'd seen better legs on a goat.  

Jese Calhoun eyed the twig-like limbs of the ageing dear who pranced across the Blue Bottle Saloon's stage.  Her bulbous knees knocked, sending her wobbling and stumbling toward stage right.

This was nothing like the placard described, Jese marvelled.

He'd landed his airship out of town. Wind, which had come tearing across The Plains moments before descent, had caused his vessel to buck and fall from the sky to the lake below. He'd left his stomach somewhere above the clouds.

Finding a billboard - nailed to a tree - that proclaimed Blue Bottle Saloon to have the finest looking broads and (most importantly) the best whiskey in The West, Jese had unloaded some cargo and his trusty steed and set off toward town, without washing the fresh cow manure off the lower decks floors. He knew he'd regret it when dawn broke, there was nothing worse than scrubbing dried cow pats off the studded metal floor.

Jese was fortunate that he'd only arrived for the liquor and not the broads.  They'd been nothing to write home about. Some had faces that resembled the Mojave Desert from the bow of his airship. Wrinkles cutting across cheeks, in the same way that deep lines - from his aerial view - jarred the landscape below. He only wondered what more Little River could vomit up?

The Master of Ceremonies appeared from the shadows. Lank dark hair sprouted above his ears, accentuating the large hairless dome that rose above. Jese wondered how many breastfed babies smacked their lips when they saw him passing, mistaking his head for their mother's bosom. He looked like a mad inventor.

His churning stomach disappeared in a moment, and excitement grew.   Mad inventor. The sole reason for his rough descent into Little River. He'd unloaded his load of cattle quickly enough, 100 nautical miles east.  Fuel was running low,  but he set flight anyway.   Desperate to find Earl Radcliffe, the man who'd stolen his granddad's plans from Jese in broad daylight.  He would get what was owed to him.

His teeth ground together.

"She's sailed a long way from her family's Manor in the English countryside," the master of ceremonies cried. "Please welcome to the stage Miss India Sommers!"

The crowd exploded around Jese. Pints of warm beer slammed against table tops - momentarily allowing their insipid brown innards to cascaded through the air. Cat calls rang out across the room, sending spittle flying from the mouths of those ardent onlookers. Their ruddy faces glowed from the alcohol they'd consumed.

Amidst this liquid mayhem India Sommers stepped onto the stage. Her unnaturally blonde hair curled around her shoulders, tickling the porcelain white skin exposed by her plunging neckline. Her lips curled into a secretive smile.  She was talking, but no one could hear her over the din.

The roar deafened him.

Jese could understand the magic.  He felt his heart tighten at the sight of her. A clean, attractive woman was a rare treat in The West. Her fragility reminding onlookers what they'd left behind in the East; the smell of an aged paperback, the tickle of cleaned sheets against the skin, and the sight of their mama's porch in the evening sun.  Things that were now well out of reach.

But that wasn't what made his heart skip a beat.  He didn't care for her wig and fancy clothes.  No, he was attracted to that stubborn look in her eyes. Those arms - sculpted by hard work, and the proud posture that she held herself with. 

These men could wallow in their misty eyed nostalgia. Jese had sacrificed everything to be alive. He wouldn't lie, he wasn't overjoyed by how his life had turned out, but to feel the blood pumping through his veins was good enough.

The musicians jostled for space on the stage and primed their instruments.

"Nice looking wench, isn't she?" The voice broke through the swell of music.

Startled, Jese glanced around to find a young cowboy leaning next to him, his chin propped up on one hand.

Jese grunted in agreement. "She's the only thing in here not soaked in perspiration."

"A few of the coins in my pocket and she'd be covered in my sweat." The lad shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a handful of dimes.

"For that measly amount?" Jese laughed in disbelief.

"I've not been turned down before," the cowboy boasted.

Raising a drink to his lips, Jese wondered if it were the case.  Had the women here become so impoverished that they would stoop to such means?  He'd seen a lot of dejected souls on his ride into Little River. The Crime of '73 was sending people East in hordes. All fleeing the devastation that the rising interest rates caused.

"They are all *very* welcoming," the cowboy continued.

There was something unusual about her. Something Jese couldn't put his finger on. After close observation, he decided that it had to be those dark blue eyes, almost grayish cerulean blue made even more striking by their almond shape. "She doesn't look English," Jese said. Her eyes combined with well-defined cheekbones, full pouted lips hinted at an exotic mixed heritage. If only he could have a moment alone with her... his hands tugging off that awful hair piece.  His mouth -  He shook his head clear of such thoughts.

The barkeep leaned up to the solid counter. Jese watched the lose lipped cowboy suddenly become silent.  Men had lost their lives in The West for nothing more than a sour word directed at a dancing girl.

"Beautiful creature," he nodded in India's direction.  "You won't see her during the day... in a town as small as Little River."

The cowboy grunted. "Must've married a slave driver."

"He wouldn't dare leave his wife around these derelicts," Jese remarked.  If she fell into the wrong bed it could be disastrous. Jese had seen too many men turned mad from ingesting mercury in the hopes of ridding themselves of a venereal disease.

With one large gulp, he emptied his glass of whiskey and wiped his mouth on the back of a tanned arm. "Water, please." Drinking to obliteration would make him vulnerable to any would-be bounty hunters.

"You been bringin' cattle up?" The bartender asked, with a pointed glance at the goggles hanging around Jese's neck.

"I have." Jese nodded. He'd become a clockwork cowboy years before. It was a cheeky nickname given to airship Captains who hauled livestock about the country. It wasn't the most glamorous vocation, but in these times what was, really? And he'd had enough experience since arriving in the West to know that he'd been onto a good thing.

Gold mining in Butte, Montana was one of the most successful ventures. Although, at the time, it hadn't seemed at all positive. Instead, he'd felt tormented by the work. His back had been scorched by the sun while his lower half froze from the alpine water. "Wet below and sweat from above." He'd heard his fellow miners grumbling constantly. And each night he'd been forced to return to a flimsy tent where he had only his boots as a pillow. However, he'd stumbled on a good sized nugget. He'd bought shares in an airship, and his finances had started to change. His arrival in Little River heralded that. And he still had some gold left over. He felt it digging into his calf muscle, lifting a well-shod boot he rubbed absent-mindedly. He wasn't about to leave that anywhere easily accessible by a quick-fingered street urchin.

"Do you expect a fine price?" A glass of water was thrust across the bar in his direction.

Jese glanced up in shock, wondering if the man had somehow seen through his boots. A chunk of gold so big that he'd had to chip it down so to sneak it out of Butte discreetly. It was either that or to risk having his throat slashed open by every eager miner in the area. His shock was quickly replaced with an understanding he nodded, realizing that the man spoke of his cattle. "As fine as one might expect in these times."

Jese had left the mining camp as poker-faced as possible. He'd known - even then, so many months ago - where he was heading once he'd organized his finances. Little River. He'd been there before, a decade earlier. Radcliffe Ranch. The two words had been causing an uncharacteristic smile to play on his lips all evening.

Earl Radcliffe was just the person to help him out of this dismal situation. Earl owed him. Jese would have to keep an eye on the nasty old prick because he wouldn't put it past the man not to exchange him for the bounty on his head. But, with a few well-placed threats, he was sure he could keep the old drunk in line.

And for that fact, Jese felt damn near celebratory. He hadn't frequented many taverns since arriving out west, he been so desperate to save every dime he made. But now, with his deliverance in sight, he planned on enjoying himself. 

India Sommer's had finished her song. Curtseying to her audience, she disappeared into the mass. He felt bereaved. Readying himself for departure, a few moments later, he was halted by a vision that appeared in front of him. Her eyes fixed on his face. Men from all around the bar were charging forth to capture her attention, yet she'd made directly for him. He watched her in stunned silence. Was she about to make a citizen's arrest? He went to run. He hadn't hit a woman yet and he had no intention of starting tonight.

Her hand came out to clasp his arm, to restrain him. He could feel the skin on his arm tingling from her touch. No, God. Not now! She was going to have him incarcerated for years!

"Hello, Cowboy."