The woman hopped up on the counter and Aeon realized how small she was, or rather, how much smaller than Aeon she really was.
She smiled, carefully. "I'm not your usual anarchist," she said.
... hard to run from the dead...
Well, that might explain why Aeon was so good at catching people. Her face gave away nothing. And when she saw a look similar to her own reflected back at her from this woman's face, Aeon almost laughed.
The clerk came back out, eyed Anita n the counter, and shook his head, but he didn't say anything. He set a box down on the counter, which Aeon could tell was meant for the woman sitting on it, and looked at Aeon expectantly. She strode forward, unholstered the Colt, and with it still in her hand (she wasn't letting it go, no way), she arched an eyebrow.
"It's old, but you have anything that will fit?"
The guy arched an eyebrow, too. And whistled. "1800s, right?"
"1835." Aeon tilted the gun in her hand, and the inscription, non timebo mala, caught the light.
The clerk sighed. "That should take cap and ball cartridges, not bullets."
"There were bullets," Aeon said, clearly and carefully. "At least 13.