by Tempe O'Kun
“What’s the point in having a butler if he’s not gonna make the tea?”
Her butler’s glance makes it clear as my wife’s fine crystal that he reckons this is a waste of everybody’s time. Were he anyone but her servant, that look’d fetch him claws to the face. Not that I disagree, strictly.
“You misunderstand. This is not tea. This is a process.” Her voice rings like glass, smooth, but with an edge. “This is our coming back from that wild place within ourselves to regain the trappings of the civilized.”
She’s prone to that sort of bunkum. I dig claws into my thigh to keep myself still and sitting. “If it’s not even tea, why’s it have to be tea?”
“Water quenches thirst. Tea lubricates well-mannered discourse.” She sets a tiny cup full of the steaming liquid before me. It has a fancy little scene of trees and farmland on it. My wife would like it. My wife could learn a thing or two from this tigress. I doubt anyone’s ever considered Mei Xiu anything but perfection.
My tail whips against the sand.
“A still tail invites a still mind.”
I seize ahold of enough restraint to keep the offending limb still. “Well, if I hadn’t hunted twenty minutes ago…”
Her body is a picture of stillness. “Twenty minutes ago, I too was on the hunt.”
My legs ache from kneeling, stabbed by every rock under them. I swear her butler gave me the thinnest blanket to kneel on. “These rocks hurt.”
“Rocks can teach you much. Determination. But also the price of being unyielding, for even simple water wears them away. I have spent the better part of my life studying them.”
I bite my tongue, taste a little blood, but I can’t help myself. “I feel like some manner a’ slave, sittin’ like this.”
“That is fitting, then.” She nods, then breathes in the vapors from her own cup of tea. After a spell of her just sitting there, eyes closed, she gives me an appraising look. “You are a slave. A slave to your own primal nature. You must learn to control it, rather than allowing it to control you.”
I grumble, lifting my own cup.
“Your tail is moving.”
I snarl: “I’m damn well trying! Men are supposed to be active, not mindin’ their every poker tell!” Anger lashes down my tail, causing it to crack to the side.
Bone china shatters with jaw-clenching rain of notes. The fancy tea set lies in shambles around my tail.
The tigress lets out an icy breath. “Man or animal; today, with you, there is no difference.” A hint of flame catches in her eyes. She rises in a hiss of silk. After two steps, she turns with all her usual grace. Her frown calls to mind a disappointed schoolteacher as she tosses a napkin at me. It hits my chest. “And clean the blood off your muzzle.”
And you don’t find it peculiar that Hayes and I are now finishing our uncles’ business, twenty years late?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I’ve always done my best thinking upside-down.
Gets the blood rushing to my head, which in law school I certainly needed.
A mistake folks make about bats is that we all hate sunlight. On the contrary, at this moment the sun’s warming my wings in a most pleasing manner. Almost as pleasing as a having them wrapped around a certain hare…
I look down from the cliff-side I’m hanging on. Earthbound folks tend to be uneased by heights. I find them reassuring— if ever I needed to take cover or flee, I could do so in an instant, trading height for speed.
From my perch, I can just make out three glimmering cans set in a row on the desert floor. My wings stroke over my holster, making sure my gun is secure. My hind paws shift, getting a better grip on the rock face. The creak of leather, the scratch of stone, and my own breathing: these are the only sounds on this still cliff face. Morning creeps now into every dry gulch and crevasse. The heat of midday will be on me soon.
Like the scattered clouds, passages from my uncle’s journal drift to mind. I’d winged through them, hoping to glean something of use. The references I found to Jasper Haus named him a special agent of the General Land Office. Some manner of land dispute; the details run scant as to what, unusual for my uncle.
Seems whatever business he had here brought him to blows with the elder Hayes. Both wound up shot. Old Hayes died atop a waste-rock pile, an inglorious end to a glorified bully.
Jasper clutched onto life with prodigious tenacity. Despite grave injuries, he managed to ride back to White Rock and seek aid. He spent more than two weeks in the clinic before word could reach his wife. She came alone, collected her husband, and spirited him forever from the pages of history. Until now.
Still thinking, I release the rock and plummet.
Rocks streak by me, one blurring to the next.
Wind rumbles past my ears, through my fur.
Clothes and wing membranes tremble.
Earth races up.
I unfurl.
In a swooping arc, my body carries itself aloft with the speed I’ve borrowed. A singular joy wells up in me— what Icarus grasped for a moment is mine by birthright.
My wingbones creak with speed. I stretch them further, gliding to that row of tin cans.
With one hind paw, I snag the gun from my belt. Taking careful aim, I remember to breathe before squeezing off each shot.
Hit.
Miss.
Hit.
Respectable aim for a gentleman on the wing. I circle back around, landing by the line of cans. I dust the sand from my hat, left here for safekeeping. I sit down and reload, musing on just why history has chosen to repeat itself in my little town.
* * * * *
Flying back to town, I loop around in my usual patrol. As the buildings flash below me, thoughts continue to run through my head.
What in the blazes would cause Jasper to get in a shootout with the elder Hayes? General Land Office employs surveyors and lawyers; it isn’t known for dispensing justice through promiscuous display of fire arms. But my uncle’s journal makes no mention of him stopping in for help from the sheriff’s office. Reckless, even by the standards of someone with Six for progeny.
Red dust billows as I land in front of my office. I dust off, tipping my hat to those few people out in the noontime heat. Even a warmth-loving creature such as myself finds it a touch excessive. I slip into the office.
Harding sits at the desk, writing. Ever since my little encounter there, I’ve felt vaguely territorial about it. Not overly rational, but the heart seldom is.
“Afternoon, Harding.” I amble up to the desk
“Just plain ol’ noon, more like.” The deputy slides a tied bundle of papers my way.
“What’s this? Christmas here early?”
He chuckles, though his bloodhound eyes remain sad. “This mess a’ files came for you in the post.”
I slip a claw under the twine and slice it open. Country Records came through after all. After paging through the first folder, I decide to settle in. I jump, latching onto a rafter with my wing thumbs. I then swing my body around so I can grab it with my hind paws.
Harding gives me an amused look as he slips from the office.
Dangling over my desk, I begin scouring in earnest. I get through about half the file before coming across some old payrolls. I hear the bloodhound clatter back in with a kettle and some cups. “Says here Jasper Haus really was from the Land Office.”
“I coulda told you that, Sheriff.”
“How’d you come by that piece of knowledge?”
“I was here, is all.”
My ears twitch at this statement. “How old are you, Harding?”
Mischief glints in his eye. “Reckon I was younger then.”
“Reckon most folks were.” I study him a moment.
He shrugs. “I was workin’ as an outrider for stagecoaches.”
“A force for law, even then.”
“I ‘spose.” He offers another humble shrug.
“Not even a fella by the last name Hayes would be thick enough to look for a shoot
out with a federal agent. The lion had to know Jasper’d be missed.”
The deputy says nothing, pouring tea and letting me steep. He offers me the less dented tin cup.
I accept it with a wing thumb, drinking it upside-down with care. Burns the roof of my mouth, so I hold off imbibing further. “I’m just curious how the General Land Office even knew about the mine. Takes them years just to process prospecting claims.”
“Easy. I went and told the Office of Indian Affairs.”
My ears shoot up. “And you never saw fit to mention this?”
“Not somethin’ an old dog blabs about in this town.” He takes a sip of tea. “But his mine is on ‘yote holy land. Reckon nobody was keen on another native fight. Letters from the local chief and the sheriff’ll grab folks’ attention.”
The sheriff: my uncle. “And you don’t find it peculiar that Hayes and I are now finishing our uncles’ business, twenty years late?”
“I would, weren’t it for Jasper Haus’s child having a paw in it too.”
I stare.
He smiles.
The cup slips from my wing thumb. My wings save the records, at the cost of being burnt by tea. “Son of a bitch!”
A gruff chuckle rises from the deputy. “I ain’t contestin’ there.”
“You know about h—him?”
“Sure do. Fella smells just like his father. Caught a good whiff a’ him on the way outta your office that day.”
My ears burn with horror. I might as well be sans trousers again for how naked I feel. “I— Umm… Harding, you see about that—”
He picks my cup off the floor, gesturing with the kettle. “More tea?”
I stammer for a few seconds more, then surrender. “…Please.”
I’m out of excuses.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
What does one buy a half-wild, gunslinging doe hare?
I look over the usual fineries offered at the few stores in town that don’t reek of manure or rotgut. Six doesn’t seem the type for flowers, and the only jewelry I’ve ever seen her wear is her namesake pin, the pin I keep fingering in my vest pocket. I consider buying her some finer spirits, but that hardly seems proper for a gentleman to buy for a lady who’s shared his bed.
The sun is dipping swiftly toward the horizon and I consider heading back to my bunk and forgoing the whole snipe hunt. Then I see it: a compact, flip-top pouch with holders for two brushes, a cleaning rod, rags, and even a small metal flask for oil. It’s a slick little number with elaborate patterning across the front leather. Wouldn’t be out of place beside those fancy guns of hers.
“Ya like it?” Rutherford James clops up behind me. He normally confines himself to saddlery, but very occasionally dabbles in smaller items. His backwards name still gives me pause, however. He steeples his thick fingers and inspects me inspecting his wares from his considerable height. “Made the case myself.”
I run my paws over the tooled leather. “Eight dollars seems a touch steep.”
The horse grins, the hoof-like tips of his fingers clicking together. “Just to ensure a fella appreciates it.”
I buy it. It’s overpriced, but when has a man ever gotten a bargain on a gift for a woman? And though I can’t be certain I’ll have the opportunity to present it to her, she’s come back twice, and the old adage says trouble comes in threes.
I scarcely finish tapping what I thought a rather inspired inscription into the back of it when I am accosted from behind.
“Lawman.”
My ears go back and I drop from the rafter I’d held with my wing thumbs. I land on the table and turn to see who called out.
A bulky panther stands on the shop floor, his eyes almost level with mine. I swear I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t put my wing on where. I pick up the cleaning kit with one hind paw and slip it onto my belt. “May I help you?”
He offers a polite sneer. “Boss wishes to know how you will find bunny…” His voice rings of the Orient and of marked contempt for me, considering I’m fairly certain we haven’t met. “…when wanted posters have wrong name.” He presses a pawful of them to the table, almost tipping it with no visible effort.
Figures Hayes’d send a Herculean feline to deliver something so light as a message. “Hayes asked for ‘Lester House,’ I had them print ‘Lester House.’”
He coos like winter wind. “Bunny’s name is Jasper Haus. Ja-sper Ha-us.”
“I can’t be blamed for your boss not writing legibly. Some things are beyond my control.”
“Many things, it seems.” He crosses his arms to display the thick muscles he isn’t using on me.
I couldn’t have met this man. I’d have remembered a giant panther, I think. Must just be déjà vu. I glide down from the table and look up at him, not letting my herbivore nerves show. “You have something else to say?”
He towers over me, and I pretend like this wall of black fur doesn’t evoke the image of night itself looming over me. The shopkeeper is nowhere to be found, a habit that has probably saved his life in the past. The barest glint of fangs show. “Boss will abide no more failures from you.”
“I don’t work for him.”
“Everyone works for Boss. Some for long time, some for very, very short.” He punctuates his sentence like a thump to my breastbone.
I stand my ground. My position grants authority only so long as I keep my claim to it. We glare at each other as ancient fear tingles through me. My right hind paw eases upward. If I need to, I can draw before he notices—
“Why Sheriff Blake, you weren’t considering skipping out on our dinner plans tonight, were you?” Doc pads in from the street, wearing his pristine white coat and babbling in a genial manner. “Charlotte made mincemeat pie, the finest of all meats agreeable to flying foxes.”
“Flying foxes?” The panther repeats it with incredulity, blinking at the silver-tongued red fox suddenly between us.
“Why yes, can’t you see the resemblance? The sheriff and I are practically cousins!” Doc laughs in a disarming, vulpine manner. He aligns his muzzle to mine, gesturing like a professor. “Note the similar facial structure, the distinctive pinnae and proboscis particular to Vulpes vulpes.”
The panther’s ears flick, as if to ward off the barrage of unfamiliar words. Again his words cut like chill. “Let us have no more mistaking, Sheriff.” He skulks out the door.
Doc and I watch him melt into the shadows of the evening. The fox lets out a sigh of relief, though that pleased smirk never leaves his graying muzzle.
“Well, I see now why you keep putting Charlotte and me off: you have much more charming folks to speak with.” He sounds a bit hurt. I know it’s a show, just like what he did with the panther, but he’s right. I’m out of excuses. So much for not picking favorites. Might not be a bad idea to have people firmly on my side, it seems. After all, I might have just gotten shot. Again.
Surrendering, I sweep a wing forward. “Lead the way, Cousin.”
* * * * *
“Does the mincemeat agree with you, Mister Blake?”
I swallow and dab my mouth with the corner of a napkin. It’s tough to hold a fork with my wing thumb, but I manage. Seems the Frontier hasn’t stripped me of all my manners. “It’s delicious, madam.”
Charlotte mouths the word “madam” excitedly to her husband, emphasizing the D, then turns back to me. “I didn’t know if you could tolerate beef suet, so I used honey.” She titters in her seat, tail ruffling. She’s been gracious to the point of doting for the entire evening. I don’t think they get many dinner guests. “That’s why it’s not as firm.”
I crack a smile, flattered that they went through all the effort. “It’s wonderful, really.” I’m not lying. It’s probably the best food I’ve had since I left the Old States.
“I told her she could have just used beeswax.” Doc crosses his arms over his full belly. “A little beeswax would keep it good and firm like suet.”
“You mind who you’re advising or you’ll find
yourself eatin’ wax food.” She shakes a finger at him, though not with much austerity. The cactus flower wine has long since brought pink to her ears. “My grandmother would bite her own tail if she heard I served beeswax for dinner. Shows what the good doctor knows.”
Her husband narrows his eyes her way, but she brushes his look off with her tail. She rises and beckons for us to follow her out of the little kitchen to the den. Their house is modest by civilized standards, but civilization is in short supply this far west. Flanking these two rooms are their office and bedroom, with a deep cellar downstairs, hence the wine. Doc carries in the wine and builds up the fire before settling back into a padded chair, his tail shifting out of the way in a gentlemanly curl.
Charlotte offers me a seat on the faded divan, but I make sure to sit on a nearby chest before she can insist. She settles onto the proffered seat instead. “We’ve had Mister Harding over now and again, but he’s a private fella. Seems all the lawmen of White Rock are.”
Doc offers to top off my cup, but I decline that too. I’ve scarcely touched the stuff. Even just a few sips have made my wings start to heat up.
“This is a good one.” He taps a claw on the side of the bottle. “The last one had pollen at the bottom.” This is the first time I’ve seen him without his fine white coat. More and more doctors seem to be wearing them these days, probably to distance themselves from quackery.
“I’m glad to see that wing of yours healed up proper.” The vixen examines my wing over another sip from her clay mug. “Wings can be so finicky, you know.”
I nod, flexing the limb in question. “Yep. You folks did a quality job on it.”
“Would have been a nasty business had that gotten infected.” Doc searches his pockets for his pipe and tobacco pouch. An odd part of me feels I owe him matches. “It’s a good thing that hare came along when he did, Blake.”
Good thing indeed. I might have avoiding being shot then.
