Tin Swift

by Devon Monk

  The Madders said even uncobbled, the Holder could cause ruin, rot, destruction.

  If that was true, then the brothers’ priority of gathering it up—wherever it was the pieces had landed—and getting it out of the hands of the innocent was a worthwhile cause.

  “You’re of a quiet mood, all of a sudden,” Alun Madder said. “This man someone you know?”

  Cedar pulled a cloth out of his back pocket and wiped his bloody palms and arms until they were mostly clean. He shook his head. “You?”

  The miner had a blue kerchief tied tight over his head, but wore no hat. His gaze was on the dead man. “No soul I’ve ever known. Looks to be a drifter. Found his horse back a ways in the forest.”

  “Bring it. We can use a fresh mount.”

  “Already done, Mr. Hunt. I’m not the sort to leave a useful thing”—he gave Cedar a pointed look—“or creature behind. No matter how it falls into my hands.” He pushed on his knees to stand and peered down over his thick dark beard.

  “As Miss Small was saying, we’d like you locked in the wagon now. Night’s coming. We’d rather you weren’t out roaming. And besides”—he walked off toward camp—“the witch says she has an idea for easing that curse of yours.”

  A pang of hope snarled Cedar’s gut. “She said she couldn’t break the curse unless she had the sisterhood, and days to do it.”

  “Said otherwise just before you wandered off,” Rose said.

  “So she’s talking?” Cedar stood.

  “Oh, she’s been talking nonstop since we set camp. Just don’t know who she’s been talking to.”

  Cedar followed Alun through the trees to the clearing. There was a little more light here beyond the reach of branch and shadow. The grass was tall and silk-yellow around the stones, bent to the wind, and hushing away at every stray breeze. They’d had the luck of clear weather, but any day now the skies would change.

  Storms were coming down from the north Cascade Mountains and Bitterroot Range. Strong enough to bury them in snow. Strong enough to swell little creeks into hungry rivers and trails into muddy bogs. They’d a plan to skirt the bottom of the mountain range and reach Fort Boise, Idaho, by the next week. Now he was just hoping they’d make it far enough into the Idaho Territory by nightfall to reach Vicinity. If the rains hit hard, they’d be locked flat in their tracks for the whole of winter.

  Alun strolled over to the hulking wagon he and his brothers drove. The drafts that pulled for them were off a ways grazing. So too the other horses, with a new little roan among them. The dead man’s mount. Theirs now.

  “Keep going, Mr. Hunt,” Rose said from behind, the gun still at her hip. He’d like to tell her she was being overly cautious, but that wasn’t true.

  More than once he’d pulled up out of a dream of hunt and kill and blood, only to find himself sitting in his saddle, his horse spooking and the other folk in the group asking him what he was stopped and listening for.

  He’d told them nothing. But that wasn’t true. The beast inside him wanted out. It was making sure it could be heard.

  He knew what the Pawnee had planted in his soul and knew how to keep it caged.

  Until today.

  Mae paced near the fire they’d set between the Madders’ wagon and the women’s tent. She had a handful of plucked grasses and was braiding them together as she walked and muttered.

  Less sane every day that went by. The coven of witches she’d once belonged to was calling her home, and taking away bits of her mind the longer it took her to get to them. He didn’t understand witches. Didn’t understand why her vows to the coven meant now that her husband was dead, they could drag her to madness unless she returned to them.

  But he knew cruelty when he saw it.

  “Look who I found just out in the trees, Mrs. Lindson,” Rose called out.

  Mae turned and studied him across the fire. She seemed to be made of sunset there against the sky. The red firelight burnished her pale skin and yellow hair, catching sparks in her inscrutable eyes, and drawing dusty shadows across her soft lips.

  Cedar’s pulse kicked up a beat. Since his wife’s death, he’d thought he’d never be shed of the pain of grief. Never have reason to feel again.

  Until he’d met the widow Mae Lindson.

  “I’m gonna take him to the wagon now,” Rose said. “And when you’re of a mind—”

  “No.” Mae drew her hand up to smooth her dress, discovered the grasses, and frowned. She let the grasses drop from her fingers. When she looked back up at him, it was with an ounce more clarity.

  “Leave your guns and knife here, Mr. Hunt,” she said.

  Cedar unhitched his gun belt, then his knife. Set them all down easy on the ground. When he straightened, Mae walked round the fire and stopped right in front of him.

  He couldn’t help but inhale the scent of her, always the sweet honey of flowers. They’d been on the road for days now without much more than a splash in a creek or two to sluice the trail dust. But Mae was beautiful, serene. Looking upon her made his breath catch in his chest.

  She took his hand and turned it over like she was looking for a wound.

  “This blood,” she said. “It’s not yours, is it?”

  When she spoke, it was as if a rope had been cut free from around his heart. It was a puzzling thing being near her. A thing that felt so much like love, it might even share its name.

  Not that he’d said as much to her. He didn’t know if there would ever be room in her grief to love another.

  “Mr. Hunt?” Mae said. Then, “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” The beast inside him twisted and dug deep, wanting out. Wanting Mae.

  She caught his gaze and held his own hand up so that he would look at it.

  “Where did this blood come from?”

  He drew his hand gently away from hers. “Man needs burying back a ways.”

  Rose stepped up a little closer to rub out a stray ember that popped free from the fire. “We can take care of the dead,” she said, “after the living are tended and resting in the wagon.”

  “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Mae asked with a sort of worry he hadn’t heard out of her in days.

  He pulled a smile into place, hoping it softened his eyes, eased the hard line of his jaw. Hoping it made him look more like a man who still had his reason in place.

  “As well as can be, thank you.”

  “See?” Rose said kindly. “We’re all doing fine.”

  Cedar tipped his fingers to his hat, then strode off toward the wagon, Rose right behind him.

  If he stayed near Mae any longer, he’d take her in his arms. Hold her. Hell, kiss her and do the things a man can do to a woman.

  Things she would not welcome. Not with her husband’s death so fresh in her eyes. Not with the tracks of tears on her cheeks. And the nights, every night, her whispering his name like a prayer.

  The clatter of metal on metal rose up from the other side of the wagon, louder the closer he came.

  The other two Madder brothers, Bryn and Cadoc, were off just a ways from the wagon, cussing over a chunk of brass and tangle of wood equipped with at least three valves that were sending off thin puffs of steam.

  Bryn, the middle born, was taller by a finger or two than Alun, but not so tall as Cadoc. His beard was clipped tight, and he wore a brass monocle strapped over his ruined eye. The lens flashed an unnatural turquoise from under his floppy hat as his wide, nimble fingers used a half dozen tools to tinker with the steam device.

  Cadoc Madder didn’t much involve himself in conversation unless it was to say something vaguely prophetic. He had on the same denim overalls and heavy overcoat all the Madders wore, the pockets of which bulged with gadgets. Tonight a knit cap sat over the bush of black hair on his head.

  Cedar didn’t know what sort of contraption they were trying to fire up, but it appeared to require a heavy hammer and wrench—both currently being used to pummel the thing.

  Alun Madder leaned against the w
agon wheel, smoking his pipe and watching Cedar with a hard gaze.

  “Here we go now.” Rose motioned the shotgun toward the wagon steps. “A roof over your head and a lock on the door. Cozy.”

  “You’ll need more than a lock,” Cedar said. “You know where the shackles are?”

  “I think so.”

  “Find them.” He stumped up the stairs and ducked into the darkness of the wagon.

  The wagon was so cluttered with supplies, packages, and oddments, it was like stepping into a town bazaar. Nets and scarves and rope hung from the framed ceiling; boxes, bundles, chests, and shelves were stuffed tight to bursting.

  The nets could be set out for hammocks, as the Madder brothers were used to traveling in some comfort. To one side of the nets was enough space for a bed. That’s where Cedar headed.

  He ducked a swinging lantern and stood at the bottom of the bedroll spread on a pile of sacks that had fewer hard edges than most the rest of the wagon’s contents.

  Wil lay curled on the wool blanket. Even when Wil was in wolf form, his eyes remained the same old copper color and carried an uncanny intelligence. The wolf lifted his head and ears, watching Cedar sit and press his back against the sideboard.

  Cedar let his hand drop so Wil could scent the blood, which he had probably already smelled before Cedar had even entered the wagon. Even though Wil seemed able to keep the mind of a man about him while in wolf form, it was plain foolish to bed down near a wolf with unfamiliar blood between you.

  Wil sniffed Cedar’s hand, then stared past him at the wagon door.

  Rose was coming. He could hear the weeping chime of the shackles in her hands.

  But it was Mae who stepped into the wagon.

  “Mae?” he said. “I thought Rose was bringing the chains.”

  “She is,” Mae said. “I’m here for your curse. To…to make it less if I can.”

  She held a bundle in one hand, just larger than a handkerchief. He couldn’t smell what she had wrapped up in it, but Wil whined.

  “Do you think you should? Now?”

  “Rose saw you kill a man.” Mae spread the kerchief out on a crate, revealing the contents. Herbs, a candle, a small bowl, and a bell. Her hand dipped to touch each item, over and over again, as if doubting their reality.

  “I suppose she did,” he said.

  Mae pulled the skinning knife from the sheath at her waist. “I don’t think we can wait any longer to…ease this.”

  She straightened her shoulders, but it did nothing to hide the exhaustion threading her. Mae had spent most of the journey dazed in her saddle and staring at the sky through the night.

  It tore him up to see her falling apart more and more each day.

  Not that she’d complained. Not once. She’d known that leaving the coven would someday set this cost in motion.

  “I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Lindson,” he said, “but don’t you need your sisters’ help?”

  “What I need, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said softly, “is a man with a sound mind.” She swallowed and nodded, as if agreeing with herself. Or with the voices only she could hear.

  “A lot of land to cover before winter strikes.” She nodded, nodded. “Your expertise on the trail and surviving the wilds is invaluable. We are relying on you to see that we arrive at our destination. Safely. As safely as we can.”

  “Sad day when a cursed man is the sure bet,” he muttered.

  “Not sad. Not at all. It’s a practical thing,” she said with a faint smile. “I…trust you. And I will need your blood, Mr. Hunt. Water could work, or tears, or sweat, but for what you carry…” She studied him as if she saw him clothed in another man’s wardrobe. “For that curse to ease, I’ll need the blood that carries it.”

  Cedar stood, took off his coat, then rolled up his sleeve.

  In the enclosed wagon, with the warmth of the day still trapped inside, her presence was almost tactile. The scent of flowers, the halting rhythm of her breath, and her gaze that searched him as if uncertain, or afraid, of what she was looking for, fell on his senses like heady wine.

  He offered his forearm. “Will this do?”

  She nodded, and placed the bowl to catch the blood. “I won’t need much. Still—I’m sorry.”

  He opened his mouth to say he didn’t mind, but she had already slid the knife quick and sure through his skin.

  A hot sting licked across his arm. It hurt, but not all that much.

  Mae set to gathering the drops of blood, her hands sure, as she suddenly became more interested in the blood than in the man who bled.

  Cedar forced himself to look away from her, to the wagon door, and the sky and trees beyond.

  Rose Small jogged up the steps, shotgun strapped to her back, a smile on her face.

  “Found the chains,” she declared. “We’ll have you tied up and bug snug in no time. Oh.” She stopped just inside the door. “Is everything all right?”

  “A spell,” Mae said. “For Mr. Hunt. For the curse.”

  “Think you should take a seat, Mr. Hunt?” Rose asked.

  “I’d prefer it,” he said.

  Mae didn’t seem to hear either of them. She pressed a cloth against the cut on his arm. “Hold this.”

  He put his fingers over the cloth, chose a pile of burlap bags for a chair, and sat.

  Mae returned the bowl to the crate and then shook out a handkerchief, which she quickly folded.

  “Do you need me to tie that over your arm?” Rose asked.

  “No. It’s nearly done.” One of the things the curse gave him was a faster healing time. Already the cut was beginning to close.

  Rose shook the chains free to untangle them. “Wish there was another way, Mr. Hunt,” she said. “I hate seeing anyone in cuffs.”

  “I don’t much like them myself,” he said, trying to put ease in his words. “But it’s not as if they do me any harm. Given the choice, I’d much rather the cuffs than your bullet in my chest.”

  Rose shrugged a little and clasped the cold metal around each wrist. “I would have aimed at your leg, I think,” she said, fastening the ankle cuffs.

  “And if you’d missed?”

  She double-checked the chain that ran from the ankle cuffs up to the wrist cuffs, then latched to the side of the wagon. “I wouldn’t have missed.” She gave him a smile. “You know that, Mr. Hunt.”

  He couldn’t help but smile back at her. She was right. Rose was a crack shot.

  Wil limped over to stand next to Cedar, ears up, head high. He didn’t look concerned, wasn’t whining or growling. No, if Cedar had to guess, he’d say his brother was just curious about the whole thing.

  “I’m going to stand right over there by the door,” Rose said, “in case any of you need anything.”

  She did just that, moving far enough to be out of his reach, but plenty close enough to blow a hole in his leg, or any other part of him, with that elephant gun if she wanted to.

  “Mrs. Lindson,” Rose said gently as if waking her from a dream, “Mr. Hunt is ready for that spell now.”

  Mae jerked and swallowed hard. Her gaze pulled away from whatever distant horizon had caught her thoughts.

  An absentminded witch about to call on magic was worrisome, to say the least.

  “Good,” Mae said, wiping her hands down the front of her dress, a nervous habit she’d taken to lately. “Relax, Mr. Hunt.” She didn’t turn to look at him. “As much as you can.”

  She crumbled the herbs between her palms, dusting them into the bowl.

  Next she lit the candle nub and set that carefully in the bowl. Then she began whispering.

  Cedar shifted so the shovel handle sticking up behind him didn’t dig quite so deeply into his ribs, and waited. Seemed all the world waited on Mae’s words, only moving forward at the pace of her hushed breath that slowly grew into a song.

  He lost track of time as Mae’s words lifted, fell, and became a second voice for the breeze, a second heartbeat of the world. He vaguely noticed daylight slip
away, felt the rise of the moon climbing the sky.

  The beast within him squirmed, tugged, wanting free of the bindings, wanting free of the small space of his body, the vise of his will.

  Cedar wouldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t let the beast take his sense away again. Not so long as he could stand on two feet as a man.

  He held tight to his calm, ignored the beast, and let the witch do her work.

  Mae held the bowl up to her lips, whispering over the edge, her words coming faster, softer, almost as if she were caught in a thrall. She finally turned toward him, took the few steps across the wagon, her eyes unfocused. Or more likely focused on things Cedar could not see.

  Rose shifted against the doorframe. She’d kept the gun holstered and instead held a little bottle with a mix of cayenne pepper, water, and oil. She’d bargained the pepper from the Madders and boiled it to a wicked concentration. Rose said it would stop a man dead in his tracks if he got a face full of what was in that bottle.

  Cedar didn’t savor the idea of being the man she tried it out on.

  “Cedar Hunt.” Mae’s voice trembled, exhausted as if she were indeed carrying all the world on her words. “Let your debt be paid. Let your ties to those who walk the earth and stars fall away in peace. Let your soul become unburdened, unbound, and return again to the true shape of spirit and flesh.”

  She blew out the candle and the smoke rolled toward him. He inhaled.

  For a moment, he felt lifted, as if he stood beside himself instead of set solid in his own skin. For a moment, the beast seemed a great distance from him, as if pulled away by a retreating tide.

  An explosion blasted through the night.

  Pain, hot and claw-sharp, dragged him back as if the beast tore into his flesh, muscle, and bone, and clamped down with brutal jaws.

  He opened his mouth to yell, to gasp for air.

  And the pain was gone.

  He sat, shackled, on the burlap. He was not bleeding. He was not injured.

  And he was not cured. The beast was still inside him.

  The Madder brothers outside the wagon cussed and laughed, congratulating themselves.

  Rose stomped back into the wagon. He hadn’t heard her leave.