As if his familiar knew his thoughts, the jackalope mused, “We could just say no one was home and go on to the next one.” The plucky creature hopped around the dusty trail a few times, stretching his furry legs.
“You know as well as I do, this thing won’t make it to the next town.” In spite of his misgivings, Caleb squared his shoulders and tugged his hat down over his eyes. “Come on, one last short ride, and then we can turn this heap of scrap over to someone else.” He scooped Ernst up, depositing him on top of the battered trunk attached to the back of the transport, and swung himself into the saddle.
As they rattled and clanked their way into the town, Ernst peered at the high sign spanning the width of the road. “And what’s the name of this place? Dusty Hollow? Dry Gulch? The Backside of Hell?”
Caleb smiled a bit to himself as they rode under the sign. “Hope.”
The townsfolk stopped to watch the stranger ride into their town midst, as Caleb had known they would. He tipped his hat to those who would make eye contact, but most kept their gazes down, only daring to stare only once he’d passed them.
They rode past a small barber shop, what appeared to be a dressmaker’s shop, and several nondescript structures that might have been personal dwellings. A church with a modest steeple dominated the north side of town, and a half-constructed something sat just beyond that. There was no sign of a hotel or boarding house until Caleb spied a card in the window of the tavern that said “Rooms To Let”.
“Looks like this is our best bet, Ernst.” He dismounted, stretching muscles that were cramped and complaining from the long hours in the saddle. Even after three months, he was still green enough that the long rides hurt. “Watch the transport., I’ll be right back.” If the jackalope grumbled about being reduced to guard duty, Caleb missed it as he stepped up on the wooden walk.
The inside of the tavern was just as hot as the outside, but the dimness was a startling change after hours under the ruthless sun. Caleb pulled his hat off, surveying the room to allow his eyes time to adjust. The tables were empty but clean, and a piano stood in one corner, carefully covered with a linen cloth against the predations of dust . On the far side, the staircase would presumably lead to the promised rooms for rent, and the bar stood to the right of the swinging doors, backed by mirrors and a wall of glass bottles of varying alcoholic content. There was even a cold box, hissing softly as the arcane power in its tubes cooled the air within. All in all, it was one of the nicer places they’d been, lately.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
An answering yell came from a doorway on the right, and it the door soon swung outward to admit one slender fellow with dark black hair and shockingly blue eyes. He grinned through his beard, drying his hands on a towel. “How kin I help ye?” The brogue was unmistakably Scottish.
“Looking about a room to rent. I saw the sign in the window.”
“Oh, yessir! Rate’s two dollars a week, meals not included.” The dark-haired Scot came out from behind the bar, offering his hand, but his smile slipped a bit when he saw the star pinned to Caleb’s
coat, the six-gun on his belt. “The last Peacemaker used ta take rooms out at the Warner ranch, about ten miles south of here.”
Caleb took the offered hand for a firm shake, feeling a faint tingle against his skin. If he had to guess, he’d rate the barkeep on the low end of the power scale. Nothing someone like Caleb couldn’t handle. “My transport’s not going to make it another ten miles, so I think I’ll just stay here if that’s all right. Name is Caleb Marcus.” Digging his wallet out of his coat, he presented five dollars to the tavern owner. “For meals, too.”
The Scott’s eyes lit up at the sight of the money in advance, but there was still a caution there, a wariness that Caleb had seen in the other towns he’d visited. “Teddy MacGregor. Owner of this establishment.”
“Well, tell me, Mr. MacGregor. Do you happen to have an arcanosmith in this lovely town?”
The man snorted, retreating behind the bar to put the money safely away in his cash box. “That’ll be just Teddy, thank ye. And we got a smith on the west end of town that can do for most things. Otherwise, you’d have to ride out to the Warner place. Abel keeps his own arcanosmith out there.”
“I’d rather shoot the thing myself than ride another mile.” Caleb grinned and was relieved to see the tavern keeper return the expression, though the man’s gaze kept drifting to the right side of Caleb’s face. Inwardly, the Peacemaker sighed, but if the Scot wasn’t going to ask, he wasn’t going to bring it up.
Finally, Teddy shook himself and tossed Caleb a key attached to a large chunk of wood. “Up the stairs, last door on the left. We serve food from five to nine, and whatever you’d like to drink until
midnight.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tipping his hat as he put it back on, Caleb stepped back out into the searing summer sun. He glanced to the west and paused to look at the mountains, suddenly looming large over the plain. When did they get so close, and why did it feel like they were watching him just as much as he watched them?
A clamor of childish voices drew his attention, and he smirked when he saw Ernst atop a convenient barrel, surrounded by curious youngsters. He could hear the jackalope purring over the din, and the children oohed and aahed obligingly.
“Enjoying yourself?” Caleb leaned against a pole, grinning at his companion. Any time he lost Ernst, he could be certain to find him in the arms of the nearest child. The furry creature just rolled his eyes in absolute ecstasy, carefully holding still to avoid jabbing anyone with his antlers, which, Caleb noted, he had blunted for safety’s sake.
“Is he yours, mister?” One of the older boys, all of seven maybe, looked over at Caleb. “Is he yours, mister?”
“Well, we travel together. So, in a way, yes.”
“He’s so cute!” The children seemed to understand not to pick the small animal up, contenting themselves to with stroking his downy-soft fur, exclaiming over his long, supple ears.
“That’s a helluva scar, mister,” said another boy, sandy-haired and freckled, and he got swatted by what had to be his sister for his language.
Caleb idly fingered the smooth scar that cut down his right cheek idly. “It looks worse than it is.”
One of the girls, braver than the others, went on tiptoe to examine the man’s face. “Can you see out
of that eye?”
Caleb chuckled and nodded. “Perfectly.” Children were so innocent in their curiosity. Very few adults would have asked him about the scar, which began at his jawline and extended upward right into the iris of his eye, leaving a stark white line across the hazel.
“Abigail!” The alarm in the woman’s voice was enough to make Caleb alert, scanning for any danger as the woman hurried across the street to snatch one of the little girls from the throng. “Don’t you be bothering the Peacemaker now, you hear? None of you all! Git home!” The youngsters scattered like a flock of startled crows.
“They weren’t bothering me, ma’am, really…” She didn’t seem to hear him as she shooed the children quickly away, darting worried glances back over her shoulder. She and her daughter disappeared into the dress shop.
“Well, you’re a sure conversation stopper, aren’t you?” Ernst leapt to the transport’s saddle in one graceful bound, his ears drooping in disappointment.
“Seems like it.” The curtains twitched on the dress shop when his gaze passed over them. They were watching. “There’s a smith just down the street. Let’s see if we can get this contraption fixed.”
Tripping the appropriate lever, he urged the transport into motion, cringing at the grind and clank in the hindquarters. It was a wonder it had made it this far.
The smithy, once discovered, was labeled simply “SMITHY”, and the heat rolling off the forge made the oppressive summer day seem positively spring-like. The smith himself seemed oblivious to it,
wearing a thick leather apron over his shirt as he labored over the glowing c
oals. Orange coals, Caleb noted, not blue. Unusual.
“Hello there!” The smith kept working with no response to Caleb’s hail. “I was told you might be able to repair a transport.?”
That at least earned a grunt in answer, and after a few more moments, the smith laidy his long tongs aside and stepped away from the forge. He was older than Caleb expected, his hair already gone white, and there was no warmth in his pale eyes. “Ja. I can do, yes.”
Ah, not white hair, but very pale blond then. The Swedish accent gave everything away. Caleb nodded him toward his malfunctioning machinery. “It’s got some kind of hitch in the back end.”
Wiping his sooty hands on a rag, the smith came out to inspect the transport, paying no mind whatsoever to Ernst perched on its back whatsoever. He made thoughtful noises as he circled the construct, bending to look along the belly workings, poking at the transparent casings in a few places.
Caleb finally broke the silence. “Can you fix it?”
“Hmm. Ja. Maybe. Bearings seized up here.” He poked with a grimy finger. “Gear stripped here. No parts. Need to make new.”
“And how long will that take?”
The Swede pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Week? You come back, one week.”
Caleb’s heart sank. That was going to put him behind schedule. “You don’t happen to have another transport I could rent in the meantime, do you?”
“Ja, maybe. Dollar. Tally up price for repairs when done.” There was humor glinting in the smith’s
eyes, but Caleb was too tired to even guess at the joke. He forked over the dollar, eyeing the few remaining bills in his wallet dubiously. If the repairs took the last of his cash, he was out of luck until he reached a town with an actual bank.
“I’m Caleb, by the way. Caleb Marcus.” He stuck his hand out to shake, and for a moment, the smith eyed it like a striking snake. Finally, the Swede gripped his hand, pumping it once.
“Sven Isby.”
The Peacemaker fought to keep the surprise off his face. There was no tingle in Sven’s skin, not even the faint hum of a low-level power. There was only the warm calloused hand, and the sense of…nothing. The man had been scoured. The smith raised his chin in challenge, almost daring Caleb to say something. Caleb forced a smile. “I’ll check back with you in a couple days to see how it’s going.”
“Ja. Do that. Rented transport stored around back.” That seemed to end their dealings, as Sven went back to his forge and began working the huge bellows.
Caleb retrieved his saddlebags, throwing them over one shoulder, and his trunk, which he propped on the other. Ernst hopped up, his slight weight barely noticeable, and Caleb took his staff out of the scabbard on his saddle. He waited until they were around the back of the building before he asked, “Ernst, did you notice—”
“Yes.” Caleb could feel the creature shudder, even though he was perched on the trunk.
“Could you tell—”
“Looks accidental. Trauma as a child.”
Some of the tension in Caleb’s chest eased. Accidental scourings were tragic but did happen,
most often before a child learned true control of their his own power. But better that than someone who had been scoured deliberately. That was reserved only for the most dangerous of criminals.
The fact that the town had accepted the blacksmith as a contributing member and business owner, despite his disability, only served to highlight the differences between the borderlands and the urban sprawl back east. In the city—any city, really—it was nothing to see packs of scoured or barren men, living rough in alleys or slums, making do with society’s scraps, the occasional odd job, and the few charities that catered to such. No one wanted them. No one wanted to see them. They were a reminder of what could so easily go wrong.
For all that he didn’t have a lick of power about him, Sven Isby was a lucky man.
The humor in the smith’s eyes made sense as Caleb surveyed the “transport” he’d been rented. Ernst snickered from his place atop the trunk. “You paid a dollar for this?”
Well, it was at least a construct. It was also tall enough that Caleb couldn’t see over its withers. With the broad back and extra pinion hooks, it had obviously been designed for hauling, not riding. It was also at least four generations out of date—it had actual reins instead of levers—and some of the metal pieces gleamed brightly where they’d been replaced with newer parts over the years. Still, the soothing blue glow of the arcane power swirled within the casing as Caleb inspected it. “Better than nothing, I guess. It could have been a horse.”
Ernst traded his trunk seat for the back of the hauler. “Comfy up here! Lots of room to spread out.” And he proceeded to do just that.
Muttering to himself, Caleb took the reins and led the lumbering monstrosity back toward the tavern. Each steel hoof was as large as a dinner plate, and Caleb grimaced, just thinking about getting a foot caught under one.
The streets were largely deserted, an oddity for this late in the afternoon, but Caleb could feel the eyes on him as he walked the length of the town. And not all of the gazes were friendly. He fought the urge to funnel a trickle of power into his staff. Lighting the runes was impressive- looking, but showing off would be beneath him. “What the hell is wrong with this place, Ernst?”
“Must be your innate charm.”
Somehow, Caleb didn’t think so.
With the rented transport left at the tavern and his things stored safely in his room—he kept his staff, out of sheer paranoia—Caleb went in search of the one thing he’d been missing for the last month, without much hope of locating it. Through some miracle, he found it at the general store.
“Ernst, I may have died and gone to heaven.” He could see at least two tins of his favorite cigarillos on the shelf, and if there were more in the back, he might be tempted to buy those, too, before he left town. He hadn’t had a decent smoke in longer than he liked to contemplate.
The jackalope, now without a convenient place to roost, hopped his way around the store, idly sniffing at things on the lower shelves. “And how much are the repairs going to cost you?”
Caleb sighed, examining his wallet again. No, no more bills had materialized into it. Reluctantly, he only plucked only one tin from the shelf.
The storekeeper had eyed them from the moment they walked in. His eyes looked like two black beetles under his bushy, salt-and-pepper brows and, following followed them as they perused his wares. Ernst got barely a glance, unusual in most places, but the Peacemaker badge had earned a wary scowl. The general feeling of hostility was starting to weigh on Caleb, and he scowled right back as he seat the tin on the counter. “Just this, please.”
There was no mistaking the surprise on the storekeeper’s face, his prominent eyebrows rising almost to his hairline. He stood up from his stool, revealing that he towered a good four inches over Caleb and weighed a good deal less. Good Lord, the man was gangly. “Um . . . er . . . six bits.” Caleb counted out the seventy-five cents from his wallet, pushing them across the countertop. The storekeeper bit one, then dropped them into his till and took his seat again.
Caleb leaned his elbows on the counter. “Can I ask you something, sir?”
“You can always ask.” There was caution in his voice, but Caleb read curiosity in the set of his lanky shoulders.
“Why is everyone in this town treating me like I’m about to eat their children?”
At least the tall man had the good grace to blush. “Well, sir . . . To be perfectly frank, you’re new, and no one really knows you yet. But the last Peacemaker . . . he made it real clear that he wasn’t required to pay for anything. Which was fine, really! ’Cause this close to Indian territory, we surely appreciate all you do for us. But . . . sometimes maybe he took a bit more than folks was really
comfortable with, you understand?”
“Yeah, I understand.” Caleb gritted his teeth. It explained a lot about the reception he’d received, all over the circuit. “Maybe
you could do me a favor and let folks know that I’m the new Peacemaker, and I pay my own way.”
The old storekeeper’s face broke into a slow smile, like he could scarcely believe his good fortune. Good gossip was better than a bag of gold dust, if everyone came to see what the storekeeper knew. “Yessir. I could do that.” He offered his hand. “Hector Pratt.”
“Caleb Marcus.” There it was, the tingle of faint power just beneath the skin. More than Teddy at the tavern, but still relatively average. Caleb often wondered what people felt when they shook his hand.
“Well, Agent Marcus.” The storekeeper offered him a jar of lemon drops. “Welcome to Hope.”
About the Author
K.A. Stewart has a BA in English with an emphasis in Literature from William Jewell College. She lives in Missouri with her husband, daughter, two cats, and one small furry demon that thinks it’s a cat.
Find K.A. Stewart on:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/tasmin21
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JJDSeries
Her Blog: http://literaryintent.blogspot.com
A Snake in the Grass Page 23
