Gustav didn't have the energy to resist as the bartender led him out of the bar and into the dark of the evening.  He no longer cared what happened to him as he slumped against an alley wall and fell into unconsciousness.  The fools didn't understand the danger they were in.  The last thoughts he had before dropping into a much overdo sleep was that they would be sorry.<br/><br/>***<br/><br/>Tahoma kept his mouth shut, his eyes and ears open.  He had seen the scene on the stairs between the big man he was fairly certain had come from the mine with the dead bodies.  The heavily accented English was difficult for the Navajo born to understand but he picked up enough to understand the fear in the man.  Had he not been so focused on his concerns of the mine, he would have wondered even more about the dark skin of the women who had enough authority here to have the miner thrown out.  He had never seen, or even heard of such a dark white woman as he thought of her.  He had heard tales from some of the older soldiers about a war to free the white black people but none of it had made much sense to him.  The Spanish had taken slaves from among the native population but that was generations before Tahoma had been born.  The idea of owning another human being was foreign to him and his people, they had driven the Spanish out of their lands and he expected they would do the same with these newcomers.  He watched the card game at a nearby table, he had seen soldiers playing such games but had never been invited to one and new nothing of the game.   He couldn't pick out any of the conversation well enough to get a feel for what was going on, no one appeared too panicked but it was hard to read these strange people.<br/><br/>He had tried to keep his head down but when the dark woman asked him if he was drinking he couldn't resist looking up at her.  A good luck at his face would confirm he wasn't a Mexican, unless she wasn't very familiar with Navajo.  When he looked up at Victoria he was taken aback for a moment, she appeared almost otherworldly to him and he couldn't find his voice.  Drinking would be a mistake here, he was sure of it, but almost out of reflex he said "whiskey", not knowing it was in short supply.  He rummaged through his pockets even as his eyes stayed locked on her face, as if he couldn't look away.  He wasn't used to using coins for currency but had a few stashed away but just needed to find them.  The gold coin fell heavy on the table, likely worth a dozen whiskeys if it could be bought.  He then asked in a slow and slightly stilted English.  "That man, the one who tore your dress, is he loco or drunk?"