The Dragon Chronicles

by Ellen Campbell

  Judgment

  by Monica Enderle Pierce

  IT WAS NEAR CLOSING TIME and McKay’s Saloon was full of chasers and herdsmen talking, laughing, and caterwauling when Peregrine Long staggered past and stumbled up the wooden stairs to the Sheriff’s office.

  At Peregrine’s insistent banging, Sheriff Wolfberg unlocked and opened the door.

  “You better have a darn good reason for waking me at this hour,” the sheriff muttered. Yellow light spilled from the doorway and, mid-yawn, he spied Peregrine’s bloodied face and sooty clothes. “Long? What in Sam Hill happened to you?”

  Peregrine rasped, “Get me a stiff drink, and I’ll tell you.” He scuffed across the wood floor, dragged a chair back from the deputy’s table, and groaned as he sat.

  Wolfberg poured a double shot of Dragonfire whiskey and clunked the bottle down beside Peregrine’s hand. “You need a doctor. Your story can wait.”

  Peregrine grabbed the man’s brown vest and pulled him forward until their faces almost touched. “No, sir, it can’t. We’ve got less than one day.”

  “Or what?”

  Peregrine released him and tossed down the whiskey. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, leaving a grimy smear. “Or the Judge will be here looking for payment.”

  Sheriff Wolfberg planted his palms on the scarred, wooden table and leaned over Peregrine. “You’d better explain that, son. You better explain very clearly what you’ve done to bring that hellish beast down on Bonesteel.”

  * * *

  EARLIER…

  The leather saddle creaked as Peregrine swung down from his blue roan’s back. With a practiced hand he hitched his new pony beside Deputy Isabeau Hightower’s buckskin gelding as he squinted at the blue March sky with his good eye. It was midmorning. He sucked in the cool mountain air.

  It was a fine day to be alive.

  Peregrine patted his horse, Tohcta, then swung around and headed for McKay’s Saloon. Like a swamp reed, his lanky frame had an unmistakable bend when he moved. Spurs jangling and boot heels thudding he crossed the wooden walkway and pushed through the saloon’s doors into a dim room.

  The air was warm and thick with the stench of ale and sweat. Cigarette smoke hovered around the lights, twisting into ghostly patterns as Peregrine passed through it.

  “So I says, ‘Why’d you go and kick a big ole snapping turtle like that for?’” Bobby Mack, a mouthy troll chaser from Shao San’s Circle S Ranch, was repeating his favorite story to everyone within earshot. Bobby loved big stories, especially when he was telling them.

  “Whatcha doing in here, Long?” Jack McKay asked from behind the scarred, mahogany bar as Peregrine bellied up.

  “Buying a drink.” He surveyed the one-room saloon for Isabeau but spied her sister, Simone, beside Bobby. She musta been riding the deputy’s horse. Peregrine fought a snarl. His like for Isabeau was countered by his dislike of Simone. She was dirty, in more ways than one.

  None of the riders acknowledged him. Bonesteel was a company town, controlled by Pico Connelly. People lived and died working Pico’s Double L sheep herds. The man had built Bonesteel from nothing to wealthy. And Peregrine was a one-eyed outsider.

  McKay swiped a beer-stained rag across the bar. “You don’t drink.”

  Bobby sneered at Peregrine, and then continued his tale. “So he says, ’I thought it was a rock.’ Can you believe that? A rock!” He hooted and swigged his beer. “Dumb as a duck, that boy.”

  Simone glowered at Peregrine as he leaned on the bar and answered McKay.

  “Today I do. Dragonfire.”

  The red-haired bartender shrugged and poured a shot of amber whiskey. He jerked his chin toward the saloon’s wavy glass windows. “That a new pony for Pico’s string?”

  The shot burned all the way down and put fire in Peregrine’s gut. He cleared his throat. “She’s mine.”

  McKay’s ruddy brows rose.

  Bobby and Simone squinted through the window. “Where’d you get the money for a fine pony like that?” Bobby asked.

  Peregrine clunked his glass down. “Saved it.”

  For eight years Peregrine had worked the Double L’s pony lines. But his odd eyes—one brown, the other gray—made men uncomfortable. The color of steel, the left one didn’t focus and made the world blurry. He was born that way and often wore a black patch over the eye. But it didn’t keep Peregrine from being a fine and fast shot with a revolver or from doing his job well.

  Which had turned out to be a problem, because every year he’d pushed to be promoted to troll chaser. But Pico’d always passed him over, saying good linemen were too hard to find. Peregrine figured it was because of his eye. So he’d scrimped and saved, and he’d just bought Tohcta, his own troll pony. Granted, her muzzle was more gray than blue, but she suited Peregrine; he was going gray at the temples, too.

  Simone Hightower tapped her shot glass on the bar and McKay refilled it. “Isn’t that one of Darla Sanchez’s prize roans?” she said.

  Peregrine tossed a copper coin on the bar and stepped back. “Was.” He tugged his black, wide-brimmed hat down and faced Simone. “Mine now.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  Judgment be damned, Peregrine thought as he headed for the door.

  Outside, he pulled Tohcta’s reins from the hitching post and climbed onto her saddle. The pony’s ears twitched as Peregrine turned her away from Bonesteel. She’d grown too old for mountain troll work. But there’d been problems down on the plains, incursions from the Shadowns. He’d make a good living in Cyanide chasing prairie trolls away from the buffalo herds. With a nudge of Peregrine’s heels, the blue roan strode out and they soon passed under Bonesteel’s gray stone arches.

  Peregrine sank into the creaking old saddle, tugged down his hat, and took in the view below.

  Bonesteel Butte stood over a vast, golden plain, its sloped base covered with thick evergreens up to a clear line where its sides became sheer cliffs. The butte’s pancake top—home to the small town of Bonesteel—covered six square miles and ended in the Judge’s Spire, a great stone pillar as tall as the butte was wide.

  Peregrine squinted at the top of the spire where a wisp of black smoke curled from an angry gash that led into that deadly trap. When the winds blew west the town gained a fine coat of greasy soot and the stench of charred carcasses made the residents gag. No trees clung to the sheer stone. And no one passed through the Judge’s Hollow at the pillar’s base. Not voluntarily anyway.

  Peregrine looked away. He’d be glad to put some distance between himself and judgment, even if it meant leaving Isabeau.

  The trail from Bonesteel was worn and sloped sharply downward, cutting in switchbacks along the butte’s rocky sides. It afforded travelers an expansive view of the Shadowns’ barren canyons, the green plains with roaming buffalo herds stretching forever, and the distant tree-covered Black Hills.

  The trip down the butte took a good two hours, plus another hour to pass through the shadowy forest that ringed the butte’s base, so it was after midday when Peregrine and Tohcta emerged from the trees. Peregrine straightened in the saddle. He retrieved a cigarillo from his brown duster’s inner pocket and lit a match off his boot heel. A long drag warmed his lungs.

  When he reached Cyanide, he’d head for Stetson Zmiejko’s Black Bar Ranch. Stetson’d promised him a place on his crew as a troll chaser if Peregrine got a pony, and Stetson was a man of his word.

  Peregrine glanced over his right shoulder at the thudding of hooves. Six riders were coming up fast. He moved Tohcta off the path to let them pass. But the group reined in their mounts and surrounded him.

  Simone Hightower was among them. “We want a word with you, Long.”

  “What about?” Peregrine took in her companions: tow-headed Bobby Mack and his stocky brother Beauregard, Matikai with her intense, dark gray stare, Mitchell Fishman whose dark fists were hard and fast, and his former boss, Pico Connolly. All but Pico were troll chasers from the Circle S or Darla Sanchez�
�s rancho.

  Pico spurred his blood bay gelding forward. “You got a bill of sale for that little roan?”

  Peregrine’s eyebrows rose. “’Course I do.” He reached into his duster. Six pairs of eyes watched his movements; six hands edged toward holstered guns. “What’s the trouble, Pico?” he asked as he proffered the folded paper.

  Pico took the certificate, studied it, and frowned. He passed the paper to Matikai, who was Darla Sanchez’s foreman. She glanced at the bill of sale then crumpled it and threw it at Peregrine. “That ain’t a legitimate bill of sale, Pico.”

  “Damn.” Pico shoved up his hat brim and looked at Peregrine from beneath his shaggy, gray brows, a slow, steady gaze that brooked no argument. “The trouble, Peregrine, is that you didn’t buy that pony from Darla.” As he said it, he slid his revolver from its holster, cocked it, and pointed the gun at Peregrine. The other riders mirrored him. “This pony’s stolen and Darla’s dead.”

  Peregrine took another long drag on his cigarillo and squinted at the man. “You calling me a thief and a murderer?”

  Beauregard hawked and spat then said, “We sure are. You can’t afford a Sanchez roan, and everyone knows how much you’ve been wanting a pony.”

  Peregrine ignored the halfwit. “Eight years I worked your lines, Pico. You ever known me to steal, cheat, or hurt anyone who didn’t deserve what I gave ‘em and more?”

  Pico shook his head. “The evidence is clear. You’ve got the pony, the forged bill of sale, and the motive.”

  “Then I was set up. I bought this pony from Dom Hightower.”

  Simone leveled her gun at Peregrine’s chest, and her voice and hand shook as she said, “You saying my brother killed his boss and framed you, Long? You saying he murdered the woman who took my kin and me in when we had nowhere else and no one else?”

  Pico held up his hand. “Calm down, Simone.”

  Peregrine wouldn’t put it past her to shoot him. “I’m saying I bought this pony from one of Darla’s representatives.”

  “Well, Dom ain’t here to defend hisself,” Mitchell lisped.

  Peregrine replied, “Then let’s go back to the butte and Simone can get him. He’ll prove that I bought the pony from him.”

  “Impossible,” Pico said.

  “Why?”

  Simone bared her teeth. “Because he’s dead, too, and you know it!”

  Matikai grabbed Simone’s shaking hand. “Let the Judge decide if Long’s lying. Let her punish him.”

  “The Judge?” Simone looked at Matikai. “Sure.” Her snarl twisted into a vicious grin. “That’d be more than fair.”

  Pico bowed his head then nodded, his silver hair flashing in the early spring sun. “All right.” He gestured at Peregrine’s revolver. “Don’t do anything foolish, like reaching for your gun. You just put your hands up.”

  Beauregard and Bobby cocked their revolvers as Bobby said, “You may be one of the best shots in Bonesteel, but there’s six of us, Long.”

  Beauregard added, “And Simone would welcome an excuse to kill you.”

  “You’re punishing an innocent man, Pico,” Peregrine growled. “There’s nothing fair about the Judge, and you know it.” He itched to draw his gun, but Bobby was right—six against one was no winnable fight. He’d have to stay calm, keep his wits. Maybe he could talk some sense into Pico. “You know me better than this.”

  Pico took Peregrine’s Colt from its holster and met his gaze with a steady eye. “I know you’ve been grousing for years about not getting a fair chance. And I know you don’t earn enough to buy one of Darla’s ponies.”

  “I’m an honest man. You know I’ve been saving my money.”

  “I don’t know anything about how you spend your money, Peregrine. I only know what I pay you.”

  As Mitchell tied Peregrine’s hands to the saddle horn and Matikai took Tohcta’s reins, Beauregard said, “Ain’t nobody ever trusted you, Long. Nobody.”

  They pulled Tohcta around and headed southeast toward Judge’s Hollow at a fast lope.

  Peregrine clutched the horn and tried to work his hands free. Facing the Judge was certain death; he’d rather be shot in the back trying to escape than meet her head-on. But though he worked at it, Mitchell’d been a lineman once and knew his knots. By the time they topped the Hollow’s blackened rim, Peregrine’s wrists were raw and bleeding but still firmly tied.

  “Simone.” Peregrine looked at the sister of the woman he desired. They looked so alike—small-boned, dark-haired, and hardened by a hard childhood. “Did you ask Isabeau if she thinks I’d do a thing like this?”

  Simone turned cold brown eyes on him. “Isabeau’s mourning our brother. I ain’t gonna tell her Dom died at her friend’s hands. She’s gonna believe that you left her to chase trolls and a fat wallet, Peregrine. She’s better off without you sniffing around her skirts.”

  Beneath him, Tohcta shifted and pawed the ashy trail, and the other horses snorted and pranced. Facing a troll was one thing, but a hungry purple dragon was quite another.

  Mitchell loosened Peregrine from the horn and yanked him from the saddle. He hit the ground and curled into a ball as the chasers kicked and pummeled him while Pico held the horses and watched.

  Finally Pico called, “Enough. String him up and let’s get out of here before the Judge takes notice.”

  Bloodied and squinting through a swollen eye, Peregrine was shoved down the trail to the shadowy, bone-riddled bottom of Judge’s Hollow. The stench of soot, burned tallow, and decaying flesh made him gag. He doubled and vomited while his assailants laughed, their faces covered by bandanas to cut the smell.

  Peregrine struggled as they dragged him toward the stand, a charred stump set beneath an equally charred oak tree. He dug his heels in and strained to escape their hold, but Mitchell and Bobby kept a tight grip on his arms. A rope was tossed over a thick branch and a noose tied around his neck as he was made to stand upon the stump. The noose was pulled up until Peregrine stood upon his toes to keep from choking.

  “Should we kick the stump, Pico?” Simone’s voice was low and thick. Peregrine squinted at her. Did she have regrets?

  “Couse we should,” Beauregard said and the stump rocked beneath Peregrine. “Thieves are presented swinging.”

  Peregrine gagged and snuffled, desperate to keep his perch, desperate for air. The stump held. His good eye watered. He wanted to speak, but couldn’t.

  “Murderers ain’t.” Pico replied. “Darla and Dom were shot in the back. Let Peregrine see death coming. Leave the stump and summon the Judge, Matikai.”

  There was a metal chuck wagon triangle hanging from the oak, someone’s idea of humor. Its sharp, metallic clanging pulsed in Peregrine’s ears.

  One knell.

  Two knells.

  Three knells.

  The snort of the ponies. The clatter of hooves.

  Soon only the wind groaned through the hollow to join the sounds of Peregrine’s wheezing lungs and the creak of the rope.

  And then, from beneath his cramping feet, came a thud. It traveled up his spine and through his bones.

  And then another. And Peregrine’s stomach twisted. He gasped a bubbling breath.

  The thuds came faster. Harder. Shaking the ground. A heartbeat beneath the butte. A heartbeat that expanded and contracted the mountain itself.

  The triangle jangled. The oak creaked.

  Thud.

  Dust and ash rose.

  Thud.

  Rocks skittered down the sides of the hollow.

  And then there was nothing but the wind and small rockslides clattering, Peregrine’s wheezing.

  Now there was scraping, like granite being dragged over ice.

  The Hollow’s cool air turned balmy.

  Sweat beaded Peregrine’s forehead and lip. It trickled down his back and stung his eyes. He tried to kick the stump away. He closed his good eye and lifted his feet, but the pain, the stretching, the burning made him put his toes back down.

&nbs
p; “Damnation.” Peregrine cursed fate and himself. He wanted to live. He wasn’t a thief. He wasn’t a murderer.

  “Welcome.”

  Peregrine opened his eye to see two great silver eyes in a deep purple, horned face and a mouth full of jagged teeth, each as long as his arm.

  The Judge hadn’t uttered the word aloud; rather it pulsed inside Peregrine’s head.

  He stared and swallowed.

  “You’re strung up like a murderer, Peregrine Long. Are you one?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but couldn’t get a breath past the tightening noose.

  With a curved, black claw long enough to run him through, the Judge slashed the rope, and Peregrine hit the ground.

  He lay in a pile of bones and soot, sucking in air and coughing out blood.

  “Well?”

  He sat up. How did she know his name? How did she get inside his head? Why hadn’t she eaten him? He slowly, gingerly shook his head. “No, ma’am,” he rasped. “I ain’t a murderer or a thief. I’ve been accused of a crime I didn’t commit.”

  “Really?” The Judge straightened into a sitting position, her long neck curving high above the oak tree. She cocked her massive skull. “I’ve heard that from every murderer and thief I’ve ever judged. What makes your story different?”

  “Story?” Peregrine started working on the knots binding his wrists. “I ain’t telling you a story, ma’am. That’s the truth.”

  “Hmmm. Peregrine Long, I have only three things that interest me: Solitude, my stomach, and the occasional interesting story. Since you’ve broken my solitude, you’d better tell me a good story, or I’ll put you in my stomach.”

  “What happened to judgment?” Peregrine looked over the enormous beast. In the eight years he’d been in Bonesteel, he’d seen the Judge only once as she’d taken flight, circled high overhead, and then set the hills south of the Bonesteel Butte afire.

  But close up, she was far larger than he’d perceived; her head alone encompassed the length of three ponies standing end to end. Her iridescent scales were a purple so deep they looked almost black, but showed every hue as she moved, much like the wings of butterflies. She bore three black horns from nose to forehead, and a jagged ruff encircled her neck, rising and lowering as her moods changed. She was magnificent and terrifying. But Peregrine never expected to find intelligence within the silvery depths of the Judge’s eyes.