Lawless Lands

by Emily Lavin Leverett

  Calliope crashed through the window, landing awkwardly on the wooden floor, her mangled shoulder erupting into a ball of fire. Calliope did the only thing she knew to: she swallowed the pain. Then she turned her awkward landing into a roll and came to her feet immediately next to the redheaded gang leader, drawing her Colt Dragoon with her right hand. Her left arm hung limp and lifeless at her side.

  “Drop your gun,” she said, placing the barrel of her pistol against the redhead’s cheek. “Tell your men to do the same.”

  The young man made a show of raising his hands overhead. Calliope noticed that he didn’t actually obey her command, holding his gun with one outstretched hand.

  “Darling,” said the redhead, “you have no idea what kind of trouble you’re sticking your pretty little neck into.”

  His eyes drifted down her partially unbuttoned blouse, then up to the ugly red scar around her throat.

  “Interesting,” he said. “I see we both have experience sticking our necks places where they don’t belong.” With the index finger of his free hand, he lifted the handkerchief tied around his neck and revealed a nearly identical scar. “Mine’s special, though. Like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

  “Aw cripes, Joey, not again,” said one of the soldier cowboys. “I’m not gonna shoot you again.”

  The redhead—Joey—replied, “What can I tell you? As an infant I was nursed on rattle snake milk. Damn hard to find the nipple on a rattle snake, let me tell you. So you can shoot me, or I can shoot you. I’ll be happy either way.”

  The soldier turned his pistol on Joey, his face an odd mix of trepidation and… something. Something Calliope couldn’t identify. Contempt? Not quite. Disdain?

  But before she could sort it out, the soldier fired his gun.

  Ka-blam!

  The soldier’s shot hit Joey square in the chest. Blood flowed freely, like moonshine from an overturned jug. Calliope reflexively stepped back. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

  In the same moment that Calliope recoiled, Joey staggered back a step or two, his arms spread wide like Christ on a crucifix. The pose seemed mostly deliberate.

  As soon as Joey had his feet set, he smiled. “That wasn’t altogether unpleasant.”

  The soldier must have been expecting this because no sooner had the redhead spoken than two more shots rang out in rapid succession.

  Blam! Blam!

  A second hole appeared in Joey’s chest just to the left of the first one. A third followed in almost exactly the same spot. For a moment, Joey simply stood there bleeding. He took a deep breath. Held it. Exhaled. Slowly. Then he turned to face Calliope and pulled open his shirt, displaying the three bullet holes.

  And Calliope knew her suspicions about him had been right. About what he was.

  He leaned in close, wide-eyed, whispered in her ear, “Wanna know a secret?”

  Joey rocked back on his heel and looked her in the eye before continuing in a conspiratorial whisper. “Hurts like hell, but I can’t let the boys see. Gotta keep up impressions, you know? Important thing here is that it won’t kill me the way it would you or them.” He paused, immensely pleased with himself. “The way that shoulder of yours is bleeding, you’ll be lucky to survive the night. But me? A few days from now I’ll have three scars and a great tale to tell while we’re drinking tequila around the campfire.”

  No, there could be no doubt. This eighteen-year old menace had been hung from a bone tree. Just like her. Well, probably not just like me, she mused with a certain amount of bitterness. He probably hadn’t done it voluntarily, in place of his faithless lover.

  Calliope looked at the redhead with disdain. “You are one sick individual to enjoy pain as much as you do. Beyond sick. Deranged.”

  Joey’s eyes grew wide, feigning shock with the over-the-top exaggeration of a circus clown. “How can you say such a terrible thing?”

  Calliope frowned. She was liking this clown less and less with each passing minute. “Three bullets? When one would make the point? Even your own man is tired of shooting you. How many times would he have to shoot you without you dying before the novelty wore off?” She shook her head. “Just sick.”

  “No,” Joey said with a smile. “A great diversionary tactic.”

  He gestured with his eyes to something behind her, and Calliope pivoted just in time to see the butt end of a rifle crash into her forehead.

  She dove headfirst into a lake of inky blackness…

  Calliope awoke lying on a bunk, locked into one of the jail cells. Her shoulder hurt like hell, but it had been neatly bandaged. Her forehead hurt only slightly less than her shoulder. As brittle as she was, she thought the rifle butt might have actually cracked her skull. She tried to touch her face to see how bad it was, only to discover her wrists and ankles were shackled.

  She also noticed a black cowboy locked in the neighboring cell.

  The cowboy said, “Joey wasn’t sure if you’d bleed out. He’ll be happy to see you alive.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Calliope asked, even as she realized the cowboy was right about how much blood she’d lost. On top of everything else, she was lightheaded and weak. What she needed most now was water.

  She could also tell that her shoulder was beginning to knit. Her wounds healed faster because of the bone tree. She was glad the bandage was in place to hide the wound as it healed; that would help avoid questions she’d rather not answer.

  She sat up and what little blood remained in her system rushed straight to her head. The inky black lake swirled, trying to reclaim her.

  “Who am I?” the cowboy said, grinning and nodding. He had the most beautiful smile. “Just a guy who rode into town at the wrong time. Some other black fella murdered one of the locals, and apparently all black men are guilty of one black man’s crimes. So they threw me in here.” He paused for a second, then added, “How are you feeling?”

  Calliope’s instincts told her not to trust him. “You part of the redhead’s gang?”

  Still grinning, the cowboy shook his head. “Just a black man in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Then how did you know their leader’s name is Joey?”

  “Because I heard his men say it. ‘Do I really gotta shoot you again, Joey? Don’t make me do this, Joey.’ I heard it all. Including the gun shot and the breaking window when you first showed up. You seem to be doing well, all things considered. That shoulder healing okay?”

  “Heard all that from back here, did you?”

  Calliope fished her silver hair comb out of her pocket, shackles clanking. She inhaled deeply, slowly, and cleared her head. Her body hurt like hell, but there was nothing to do but push through.

  Cowboy nodded. “I heard everything. Got good ears.”

  Calliope pulled the left-most tooth out of her hair comb, revealing a tube with a metal tang protruding from the end.

  Cowboy made a funny face. “What the devil is that?”

  “So you were in your cell the whole time?” Calliope repeated. “Didn’t see a thing?”

  “No, I told you, I—”

  Calliope inserted the end with the tang into her left leg-shackle’s keyhole and unlocked it, then the one on the right.

  The cowboy stepped back, eyes growing wide.

  “So how did you know his hair is red?”

  “Whose hair?” the cowboy asked, distracted by the small miracle in Calliope’s hand.

  Calliope repeated the process on her wrists and was loose.

  “Joey’s. I asked if you were part of the redhead’s gang. If you couldn’t see him, how did you know his hair is red?”

  The cowboy grinned but hesitated. Only a fraction of a second, but it was one fraction too long.

  “I, ah, I assumed. Why would you ask about some flunky? It had to be their leader.”

  It was a reasonable answer. Without the hesitation…

  Calliope put the skeleton key back into its slot in the comb, then pulled out
a different tooth, this one from the middle. It was larger than the first and had no tang. Calliope worked it back and forth, trying to pick the lock of her jail cell.

  Cowboy sauntered over and put his hands through the bars that separated their cells, leaning his elbows on the cross-section. “That’s a hell of a hair piece you got there, young miss.”

  Calliope’s eyes remained focused on the lock. “You know what I love about men,” she said. “So many sexist morons. Not all of them, mind you. But enough that sometimes it actually makes things easier.” She stopped working the lock long enough to gesture to her silver-plated comb. “They’d never let a man take something like this into a jail cell, but make it shiny and wear it in your hair and men think you’re adorable. Morons.”

  The door’s lock was tougher to pick than Calliope expected. She needed a break. She needed a minute to clear her mind.

  She also had a theory she wanted to test.

  “I made this myself,” she said, taking a step toward the cowboy so he could better see her creation. “It’s not actually silver, just silver plated. It’s something new called titanium. It’s lighter and stronger than silver. My father was an inventor. Had all sorts of interesting things in his workshop.”

  “Did he teach you how to make this gadget?”

  Calliope snorted. “Funny.” After a second, she added, “He said I was too girly to learn about inventing. My poor little feminine brain would never comprehend it all. But I watched him—how he approached his theories, how he used his tools.” She raised the comb, gazing at it as if mesmerized by its sheen. “When he saw this… saw what I had done…”

  “Real proud, was he?”

  “He beat me for touching his tools and took the comb. I stole it back that same night and ran away. Only seen him once since.”

  The cowboy shook his head in slow dismay. “When was that?”

  “March 24th,” she said. “In the Year of Our Lord, Eighteen Hundred and None of Your God Damn Business.”

  That brought the conversation to a train wreck of a halt—which wasn’t the plan at all, but it was okay. The memory had made her angry, leaving her mind unfocused. Diverted.

  She hadn’t sought this path, but she’d take it. She stalked back to the door and let her fingers work by feel, not trying to guide them, not trying to think. Her fingers had done this often enough that what she needed most was to get out of her own way.

  The lock clicked. The door opened. Calliope put the pieces of the hair comb back together, twisted her brown locks into a loose bun, and used the comb to pin it. The weight on top of her head was comforting. She walked toward the exit.

  “Take me with you,” pleaded the cowboy.

  “I’m tempted,” Calliope replied. “You lie real pretty. Not real well, but real pretty.”

  The cowboy hung his head. For a long, ponderous moment, Calliope wasn’t sure he’d try again to convince her to release him.

  When he lifted his head, he looked vaguely embarrassed. “I was supposed to be watching Joey’s back. When you got the drop on him, he blamed me, so he threw me in this cell the same time he threw you in yours. Sprang the two guys we came to town for and left me to rot.”

  Calliope’s eyebrows drew together. “I came crashing in through the window, and he expects you to anticipate that?”

  “Joey don’t tolerate excuses. Said he’d be back tomorrow to see if you survived. Something about sacrificing you to a tree. If you’re gone and I’m still here, who you think he’s gonna sacrifice?”

  “Not my problem,” Calliope said. “I’d say you’ve earned that, riding with a man like Joey.”

  “He’s the only one who’ll let me ride with him,” the cowboy said. “You of all people have to know what it’s like to be an outsider. To be rejected, never accepted.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The cowboy locked eyes with her, and his omnipresent grin vanished. His eyes were hard, but his voice softened. “You know exactly what I mean. A woman trying to make it in a man’s world. Can’t be any easier than a black man trying to make it in the white world. We ain’t so different, you and me.”

  Calliope’s heart melted, just a little. She wanted to punch him for making her feel this way. She hated getting emotional.

  “You got a name?” she said.

  “Thomas Marshburn. They call me Swamp.”

  Calliope raised an eyebrow as she drew her comb out of her hair and prepared to pick the lock to the cowboy’s cell. “Why Swamp?”

  “It’s like Marsh, only smellier.” He pointed behind her. “The key to the door is hanging on the hook, right there on the wall behind you.”

  Calliope looked over her shoulder. “That would be easier, wouldn’t it?”

  The cowboy drawled, “Sure ‘nuff.”

  Calliope turned back to the cowboy, key in hand. “Okay then, Thomas, tell me one thing: You willing to help me take down Joey and his gang?”

  Cowboy grinned his beautiful grin and nodded. “Sure ‘nuff.”

  That told Calliope everything she needed to know. Thomas Marshburn grinned entirely too much for his own good.

  Calliope was relieved to find her gray appaloosa, Fred, right where she’d left him, tied to the hitching post outside the saloon. She dipped her head into the water trough where Fred stood, drinking long and deep. The water was warm, funky, and full of things that would make her stomach churn if she thought too much about it. She pushed those thoughts aside. With all the blood she’d lost, she didn’t have much choice. Human blood and bones were what the tree required—and her life and health were irrevocably tied to that of the tree—but water helped heal Calliope’s wounds faster. Sometimes she felt like she was turning into a damn tree herself.

  The sun was setting, a welcome break from the heat of the day and a small bit of good luck she could add to the luck that her horse hadn’t been stolen and that she hadn’t had to hunt too far for water. Aside from getting her face smashed in with a rifle butt and her shoulder shot and shattered, she might be the luckiest woman in town.

  A jolt of electric pain screamed from the base of her skull, running across her shoulders and down her arms, leaving her hands feeling like they were swarming with fire ants. The tree was still hungry, still unfed.

  Calliope wished she had been as lucky with her guns. She’d thoroughly searched the sheriff’s office before she and Thomas walked out, hoping to find her Colts and her sawed-off shotgun. But who ever had stripped her of her guns had apparently kept them. That’s precisely why she kept secret spares.

  But Calliope really liked those Colts, the Peacemaker in particular. Now she was down to twin two-shot Derringers in her boots and the Remington under her skirt. And, of course, the hair comb. It was more tool than weapon, but she had once stabbed a man in the throat with it, so it had a variety of uses.

  Calliope climbed the three wooden steps to the porch outside the saloon. “Grab a bite to eat?” She gestured with her head toward the saloon’s well-lit interior. “Or we could head out of town. Go someplace quiet where we can build a fire and plan our next move.”

  Thomas grinned his gorgeous grin. “I could stand some grub.”

  So Joey and his gang were waiting inside. She’d need to find a way to keep the locals from getting caught in the crossfire.

  Inside, she and Thomas took a seat at a small round table near the piano.

  “What’s worth eating in this place?” Calliope asked the pianist.

  “Usually got a pot of stew going in the kitchen,” the man replied, eyes never leaving the black and white keys. “That never killed nobody.”

  “Why don’t you go fetch us some,” she said, and he skittered away faster than a lizard on a hot rock. She didn’t expect to see him again.

  Calliope noticed a collection of wooden signs nailed to the wall and chose one to use as a target, selecting a square, white-washed sign with ornamental script that read: Dr. Scott’s Medicine Show. She had heard of the good doctor, a snake
oil salesman traveling the major and minor towns of Utah.

  Calliope took off both boots.

  “What in the world are you doing?” Thomas asked.

  Calliope shook the twin Derringers out of her boots and laid them on the table in front of her, then returned her boots to her feet.

  “Practicing.”

  She picked up one of the over-under Derringers and took aim at the white, wooden sign, squeezing off two quick rounds.

  With the first shot, the bar fell silent. With the second, a few folks—including all the whores—got up and left. Whores always knew when trouble was getting ready to rear its head.

  Calliope strolled over to the sign to see precisely where her bullets had struck. One had hit within an inch of the ‘o’ in ‘Show,’ right where she’d been aiming. But the second was above it, to the right of the ‘D’ in ‘Dr.’

  She studied the saloon’s patrons. Some of these folks were slow to take a hint; some had no intention of taking one. She returned to her original position at the table, reloaded two more bullets into the Derringer, aimed, and fired again. More people left the saloon.

  “I don’t miss by much. Know why?”

  “Because you’re good?”

  “Because I practice every goddamn day, rain or shine, light or dark. You think someone just whips out a gun and hits their target because they’re naturally gifted?”

  Calliope re-inspected the white sign, finding one bullet hole barely to the left of the ‘o,’ the other one nearly through the center. It had nicked the edge, breaking the line. Technically a bulls-eye, but she’d have been happier if it’d been 100% within.

  Calliope turned from the sign and scoped out the cadre men still in the saloon. Lots of customers had left. In fact, aside from the bloody-shouldered bartender—who’d been studiously wiping the same beer mug for five minutes—all of the remaining men sat facing her. About a dozen men, all with hands inside of jackets and underneath tables.

  A lot of men who needed to die.

  Now that the room had thinned out, she observed that one of those men had her Peacemaker and her Dragoon. It was the ridiculously tall soldier who had shot her outside the jailhouse. She wouldn’t have recognized most of Joey’s gang, but this guy she remembered. This guy she would kill extra dead.