The Weird Wild West (The Weird and Wild Series)

by Faith Hunter

  “You were getting too close to the ahki. They bite.”

  “You saw me with cages and an ash hoop, and you still thought I was too witless to avoid being bitten?” She snorted. The glowstones that attracted the faeries had lost their light, and the faery flock was scattered. She’d have to set up her wheel, and there was no guarantee the faeries would even fly back this direction after such a scare. “You’ve saved me, now go away.”

  “I think I’ll stay.”

  “I’m in no danger. Never was. And I have work to do.”

  He crossed his feet and sank gracefully to the ground. “What sort of work does a girl do, alone in the dark?”

  A spark of anger flashed in her belly. Was he trying to imply that she was a whore? Just because she was a girl, or because she was darker-skinned than he was? She drew a breath, calming herself. “I’m a wrangler. I catch the akhi and sell them in town.” She watched him, but his face betrayed no emotion. He was bigger than she by a huge margin, but she was quick, and she’d happily slice open a hole in his chest before he could kill her.

  “I made a mistake, then.”

  “You did. I won’t hold offense about it.”

  He didn’t look like he was in any hurry to leave her. “I want to see what a wrangler does.”

  This couldn’t be the man Mémé had worried about, could it? Somehow she’d imagined some white cowboy, on a drunken ramble over the prairie. But a Pawnee...A sparkle caught her vision, and she glanced past the man at the creek. Faeries. They must have found another glowstone. If she could light her wheel and draw them back, she might still have a successful hunt. She swung her pack off her shoulder, and pointed at the man on the ground. “Stay if you want, but be silent and don’t move.”

  He nodded, not speaking.

  She pulled the wheel out of the pack. Standing the main rod against the dirt, she pushed it down until the wheel stood, suspended. With her thumb she dug out a small hole for the candle to stand in, opened one of the shutters on her lantern and inserted the candle far enough for its wick to catch. She placed the candle in the hole under the wheel, and waited.

  Slowly at first, then gaining speed, the paddles turned, scraping against the tinder paper with a soft snick. As they sped up, sparks popped from the paddles, tiny stars that burst and vanished before the eye could even focus on them.

  “What does that do?” His voice was the barest whisper. She should have guessed he couldn’t stay quiet.

  “Attracts the faeries. The akhi, as you call them. Now be quiet.”

  A flash, then another, then a tiny cloud of them rose from the banks of the bubbling creek. The faeries had noticed. They’d be coming to investigate. Durango set a cage on the ground next to her, and gripped her ash hoop. Time seemed to stop as she tried to keep her eyes on the glimmering flock drawing near. They swooped and dove, approaching as if following a curving mountain path. The wheel spat sparks into the night. Just when Durango thought she’d go blind from staring, the faeries swarmed her wheel. Their delicate chiming voices filled the silence, and the faeries tried to fly round and round in time with the wheel. Now was her chance.

  Durango rose from her knees, leaning forward and reaching out with the hoop. She swept it slowly past the flock, then turned it to draw them up. The tiny creatures slowed, spiraling together in a long chain leading up from the spinning wheel. Durango dropped the hoop, opened the cage and, turning it upside down, trapped the slowed faeries inside before securing the lid again. She raised it to her face, and smiled. Eight little faeries, with drunken smiles on their faces. Not the treasure haul she’d expected before, but it was a start.

  “That is wrangling?”

  She sighed, for a moment having forgotten the strange man sitting across from her. He didn’t seem to intend any harm, but she’d had enough of him being around. Blowing out the candle, she tipped it to let the melted wax run off before packing it away again. The wheel stopped spinning, the sparks gone. She latched the cage back onto her belt and packed her wheel away before picking up her lantern. “Yes, that’s wrangling. And now that you’ve seen it, you can go.”

  He stood up. “I’m Táraha’,” he said, as if he hadn’t understood her words. “Means ‘buffalo’.”

  “Named for a buffalo, but stubborn as a mule,” she muttered under her breath. “Nice to meet you, but I have to go.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

  “Durango,” she said, moving toward the creek. If she was lucky, she could find the rest of that huge flock from before, but only if she could rid herself of the man.

  “But that’s not your real name, is it?”

  She stopped, suddenly aware of her heart thudding behind her ribs. She’d chosen to call herself Durango after seeing the word in a dime novel Mémé used to teach her to read. Mémé always said never to share her real name, and no one in sixteen years had ever asked. Until now. Despite the knife at her side, Durango felt as vulnerable as a newborn kitten.

  Táraha’ was nearer than he had been, and now he was smiling. A predatory smile, one that sent chills through her. She took a step away, and he followed with one forward. “It’s not only the ash that traps the akhi, you know,” he said. “It’s the wielder, her intent. Only someone with a certain innate ability can use ash that way. Did you never wonder how you came by the skill?” He reached out his hand, his fingers long and delicate, and stroked her cheek lightly. Glittering sparkles followed the path of his fingers. “You’re born with it. It’s a gift from your mother. And I can tell you who your parents are.”

  She shivered. Mémé had never told her their names. Too dangerous, she insisted, even now all these years after they’d died. “You can?” she whispered in a ragged hush.

  The night was just as dark as it had been, but now that he stood so close to her, his features were clearer to her eyes. The scalp-lock had been a disguise—he wasn’t Pawnee at all. He wasn’t any tribe she could name. His face was sharply angled, and his eyes were the color of clouds before a storm. They seemed to glow in the dark, transfixing her.

  “Do you want to know these things I can tell you?” He spoke as intimately as a lover might, and her body relaxed under the silk of his voice.

  “I do.”

  As she said the words, she heard a whisper in the far reaches of her mind, urging her to stop looking at the man, to run home and lock the doors. It sounded like Mémé’s voice, and for an instant she remembered Mémé warning her about something. She wasn’t sure what the warning might have been, though, and the desire to know the truth about her parents spoke louder.

  “I can answer questions you don’t even know you want to ask yet. Your father and the old woman, they have kept you hidden from your birthright for too long.”

  “My father is dead,” she said, and as the words left her, she knew they were wrong.

  “Your mother is dead. Your father is not,” Táraha’ said. “He lives. He searches for you. Isn’t that nice?”

  Her father was alive. Had Mémé known? Surely she wouldn’t have kept Durango from her father if she knew he was searching. Then again, she’d lived in the same place all her life. How could her father be searching for her all this time and not find her?

  Táraha’ reached behind his back, and brought out a small loaf of bread. He broke off a chunk, and offered it to Durango. The scent wafted toward her, warm and rich as if it had only just come out of the oven. A lick of steam rose from it, and her mouth watered.

  “Share my bread with me, little one,” the man said, “and I’ll be able to tell you everything you’ve ever wanted to know.”

  His eyes glowed as if reflecting the fire of her sparkle wheel. She stepped forward, ready to take the bread he offered. His hand seemed surrounded by light, the same way her tiny trapped faeries did. But he was too big to be like them. Then again, a moment ago she’d believed he was a Pawnee man named Buffalo. What kind of people could trick the eye into seeing whatever they wanted?

  The whispe
r in the back of her mind roared suddenly into her hearing. ‘Accept nothing he offers’ Mémé had said, her voice clear as if she was standing next to Durango now. Durango knocked the bread away. Instead of falling, it exploded into sparkles that floated away into the dark.

  “You will come with me, girl,” he snarled, grabbing at her with both long-fingered hands.

  Durango danced back, swinging the pack off her shoulder and flipping it open. The bag of salt seemed to come to her hand as if bidden.

  Táraha’ jumped at her again, missing her by inches. “You’re a child of great people, and you belong with them.”

  “I don’t think my father agreed with you,” she said, working the laces on the bag of salt. A fingernail caught in the laces and pulled loose, the pain making her hiss. She yanked on the lace and freed it at last. She pulled the bag open and flung the salt at him just as he leaped for her again.

  He reared back, howling in surprise. Salt crusted his face, and he swiped his hand across his eyes to clear them. “You thought to stop me with—” he stopped, and looked down. “With salt—” he began again, and moaned. Slowly, he dropped to his knees, and began to pick up the impossibly small grains. “How could you know?” he said, his voice almost pitiful. Cupping one hand, he counted grains into it. He glanced up from his task, his cloud-colored eyes filled with rage. “When I finish counting these...” He dropped his head again, and returned to the task.

  Durango backed away, reaching down for her pack as she watched the man scrabbling in the dark. He had to count the grains of salt, every single one, and he couldn’t stop until he was done. She headed for home, walking backward and only turning away when she could no longer see his glow in the dark. Counting the salt would take him all night or longer. She’d caught a cageful of faeries, and that would be enough to please Katy Holder for a day. Most important of all, Durango’s father lived, and others wanted to claim her before he could find her. She needed to learn more about the magic Mémé wielded.

  But there was a patch of honeysuckle to harvest first. Mémé always did her best talking over a cup of her favorite tea.

  Haven

  Ken Schrader

  “Look Pa! A shooting star.”

  Wyatt Porter hit the nail off-center, bending it sideways, and burying it in the roof of his house. He muffled a curse. “It’s daylight, son. There can’t be a shooting star.”

  “Wyatt?”

  The note in his wife’s voice made him look in her direction. Sarah stepped off the porch and walked to where their son was playing with his puppy. Both of them stared into the sky.

  Wyatt turned and looked up. “What the hell?”

  In the sky was a shooting star. Only it wasn’t like any shooting star he’d ever seen. It looked like a ball of fire—and it was getting bigger.

  Wyatt scrambled down the ladder. There was no mistaking it. Whatever was in the sky was coming closer. Sarah laid a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sarah turned. “Little Wyatt, you go on inside.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The boy picked up his puppy and trudged into the house.

  Smoke was coming off the tail end of the fireball, and there was a sound, like thunder, growing in intensity. Wyatt couldn’t look away. The thought that it might crash down into his house flowed over him like a chill wind. Behind him, the horses in the barn snorted and stamped.

  The sound of its passage grew to an ear-splitting roar that Wyatt felt in his chest. It streaked across the sky, something dark at the center of the flames. He covered his ears, shaking his head as if he could clear the sound away. Windows shattered and his horses whinnied in fear, kicking against their stalls.

  The fireball headed in the direction of town and crashed down beyond his sight. He heard a hollow boom and a smoky-orange cloud billowed into the sky.

  “Haven.” Sarah’s voice was barely a whisper.

  Wyatt turned and ran into the house. Inside the door hung his gun belt and vest with his badge. He put them on. Sarah met him on the porch. “I’m not going to try and stop you from going, Wyatt Porter, just you remember to come back to me.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Wyatt kissed her, then leaped down the steps. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “The hell you will. I’m headed to the Wheel. You’ll be wanting a drink later.”

  Wyatt smiled, then ran to the barn.

  ~*~

  Haven was in chaos.

  Wyatt rode to the jail, townspeople battering him with questions from all sides as he hitched his horse. Jake McEvers, Wyatt’s deputy, stood on the porch trying to calm the crowd. “Make way, folks.” Wyatt climbed the steps and turned to face the town.

  “Everyone calm down. I saw the same thing you all did.” The crowd rumbled, but Wyatt raised his voice. “I don’t know what it was either, but I aim to find out.” He turned to Jake. “Saddle two horses.” Jake nodded and disappeared into the jail.

  Wyatt turned back to the crowd. “Whatever it was, looks like it hit ground around the Anderson farm.” He scanned the crowd. “Doc, are you out there?”

  “Here, Wyatt.” A short, thin man threaded his way forward. Doctor Eliot Harper stood just a hair under five and a half feet tall which made him shorter than most of the folk in town.

  Wyatt glanced in the direction of the farm. Thick, black smoke rose into the air. “Best grab your bag, Doc.”

  Doc Harper lifted a brown leather bag. “Way ahead of you.”

  Wyatt smiled. “Now, I’m going to need volunteers.” Before he finished speaking, several men stepped forward. Andy Turner, owner of the general store, said, “I’ll bring my wagon and as many buckets as I’ve got at the shop.”

  Wyatt nodded. “Thank you, Andy. Volunteers, help load up and meet us at the Anderson place.” Jake returned with two horses. “The rest of you go on back home. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” The crowd dispersed leaving Wyatt, Doc, and Jake alone in the street.

  Wyatt’s eyes drifted to the rising smoke. “Did you see it?”

  “I don’t think anyone in town missed it,” Doc said.

  “What do you think it was?”

  Doc crunched a piece of broken glass under his boot. “It was probably a rock from space. Broke into a thousand pieces when it hit.”

  “Maybe.” Wyatt swung into the saddle. Doc and Jake got settled on their mounts.

  Doc snorted. “You think we’ll find something else?”

  “Lord I hope not,” Jake said.

  Wyatt flicked the reins and they started toward the column of smoke rising steadily from the Anderson farm.

  ~*~

  The smell of smoke filled Wyatt’s nostrils. Behind him, Doc, and Jake rode in silence. When they got within sight of the Anderson farm, Wyatt stopped his horse. “Good Lord.”

  The barn had been knocked down like a toothpick house. Burning splinters of it were everywhere. John Anderson and his eldest boy, Matthew battled the flames.

  “Jake, take the men and put out that fire. Doc, come with me.” Wyatt kicked his horse into a gallop. At the house, he slid from the saddle and leaped onto to the porch.

  “Mary? Are you in there?” He opened the door.

  Mary Anderson ran into the room. Her face was covered in soot and streaked with tears. Two little girls trailed behind their mother. The smell of woodsmoke covered everything.

  “Sheriff. Thank the good Lord. John and Matthew are—”

  “I’ve got men helping them right now.” Wyatt stepped aside. “Doc’s here too. Are you or any of the little ones hurt?”

  Doc slid past and into the room. “I’ll take care of things here, Wyatt. They’ll need you outside.”

  Wyatt walked across the yard to join the others, then stopped, staring. Beyond the barn, a great furrow dug into the ground. It was twice as wide as a wagon and it went on until the end vanished in smoke. He walked to the edge of the furrow and looked down its length. At the far end, he guessed that it had to be deeper th
an his six-foot height. Dirt had been thrown up and out for yards by the impact. He couldn’t believe that a single rock could do this much damage.

  Through a break in the smoke, Wyatt saw...something at the far end of the furrow. Before he could think better of it, he hopped in and walked forward.

  Crumbling earth walls on either side of him rose up past his head. The smoke was denser here and he stumbled over rocks and roots. Eventually the smoke thinned and Wyatt stopped, his mouth gone dry. The thing at the end of the furrow was no rock.

  “Damnation.” Wyatt had never seen anything like what lay partially buried in the earth in front of him. His mind struggled to categorize it, to put some kind of meaning to the object before him. It was slick and streamlined. In places where the dirt had fallen away, gleaming metal showed.

  What the hell is—

  There was a loud hiss and a hatch opened in the side of the thing. Wyatt scrambled back as something long and sinuous pulled itself through the hatch and tumbled to the ground. It hit hard and lay still. Despite himself, Wyatt took a step forward, trying to get a better look.

  The creature was covered in short russet fur broken by patches of blue skin. It staggered to its feet, leaning heavily against the metal. It was tall, taller than he was, with tiny ears, black eyes, and an elongated snout. It stood upright, thick legs flowing into an inhumanly long body. It reminded him of a weasel.

  Wyatt fumbled his gun out and nearly dropped it. He pointed the shaking barrel at the creature. It shook its head, lost its balance, and dropped to one knee.

  Wyatt lowered his gun. Whatever it was, it could barely stand on its own. It didn’t look like it was armed either.

  The creature raised its head. It reached out a single, long-fingered hand with three fingers that ended in short, sharp claws.

  Wyatt felt a tingling in his head, then the creature uttered a single word. “Help.”