Lightfall One: Clock, Cloak, Candle (Lightfall, Book 1)

by Jordan Taylor

  “Fire for the lady.” Panting, sweaty-faced, the maker beams at Ivy. He wears a pair of his own sungoggles and Ivy knows he must have run all the way home for this device. He stares at the bodies before them as he steps up, leaning over for a good look.

  The sheriff, gloves already in his possession, pushes past, coughs, retreats, presses his handkerchief to his mouth, then snaps at the others to fetch shovels.

  “You say no one can get Plague from breathing around these ... people?” he asks Ivy, hand still over his face, tone sharp. “How do you know?”

  Ivy narrows her eyes. Sam’s fingers tighten on her arm. Even Melchior’s shoulders stiffen.

  Before any of them can speak, Grip says, “She’s the world’s leading expert. Damn lucky for you how that worked out, isn’t it?”

  The sheriff laughs, coughs, turns his head to spit, looks at Grip—his one eye narrowed, face shaded by his hat, the Merwin, Hulbert & Co. revolver still in his left hand—then Ivy and the other two men. All of their expressions remain unchanged.

  “Yes ... well. I must ... restore order.” He glances to the now substantial crowd in the streets behind them, pushing forward, squinting, pointing, exclaiming.

  “Light on it.” Grip turns his back, shoving the revolver into its holster, then holding his hand out to Melchior.

  Melchior passes him the pocket revolver, glancing after the sheriff as he walks away, calling for the crowd’s attention with a gesture of wide open arms.

  “That is a twist of a man,” Melchior says to Grip. “How’d he get to be sheriff of a city like this?”

  “He is not.” Grip slides the tiny gun out of sight in his coat. “Our remaining population is only pliant.” He looks past them as Rosalía jogs up with her hands full of leather, buckskin, and linen gloves. “Are there more?”

  Ivy looks from Rosalía to Grip, now watching Ivy. It takes her a second to understand what he means.

  “No,” Ivy says. “It’s not like them for some to lie in wait while others attack. You can move these out of town safely. They usually move about in groups, sometimes mounting into hordes. Hordes can be hundreds or thousands strong, but are rarely seen. A pack like this will not have more nearby.”

  Melchior pulls on gloves. Grip uses his teeth to drag on a single left one while his right arm hangs at his side. She has seen him use the arm to help maneuver or position something like his horse’s rope into his left hand or rolling up his bedroll. But the hand itself does not seem to work properly.

  Oliver is still moving about the bodies, murmuring to himself.

  Grip is trying to send Rosalía off, telling her Mateo will help them, but, like the maker, she seems fascinated by the spectacle, unafraid of the rotten corpses.

  The two men shooting with the sheriff approach with gloves and shovels.

  “Ropes?” Melchior asks them. “A lariat? Some of those arms look so rotted they’ll rip off. Maybe ropes around ankles.”

  “Ivy?” Sam. “Come back to the hall and sit down. You are pale.”

  “I’m all right,” she says, but allows him to ease her away from the group.

  “What happened? Grip!” A woman’s terrified voice from the crowd, making Ivy jump.

  A fair-skinned, dark-haired woman in a sky blue dress pushes through the throng Sheriff Thurman tries to turn.

  Grip bows his head, speaking in an undertone, “Padre, Hijo y Espíritu Santo.” He looks at Rosalía.

  “Esto no es mi problema,” she says, looking away to the western horizon of peaks.

  A muscle in Grip’s jaw works. “Need material?”

  “I just did this once.” She glances at him, swinging a glove by its fingertip between her thumb and forefinger. “But ... you know how much I’ve been needing a saddle.”

  “Mierda.”

  “Grip?” The woman is past the sheriff, voice panicky.

  “¡De acuerdo!” he snaps at Rosalía.

  She whirls, darting up the road to intercept the woman now running to meet them. Rosalía catches her, pulling her away so she does not get a look at the line of reeking bodies.

  “He’s good,” Rosalía says. “We’re all fine. No one hurt. It’s all right, Winter.”

  Ivy stares after them, then Grip.

  The men returning with ropes chuckle as they walk up.

  “That is one craz—” Melchior starts.

  Grip rounds on him, drawing the pocket revolver so fast it seems to move from Grip’s coat to Melchior’s nose without passing space between.

  “You mean to finish that, cowboy?” Grip whispers. “Let drive.”

  Melchior blinks, his eyes darting from the gun almost touching his face, to the man behind it.

  “Meant ... dandy catch,” he says slowly. “Mighty pretty. Of the first water, I’d say.”

  The two stand motionless for several seconds which seem to stretch to minutes. Holding her breath, rigid against Sam, who is equally still, Ivy is surprised by how tense she feels—considering she has several times longed to shoot him herself.

  At last, Grip lowers the revolver, decompressing the hammer at the same time. He turns away, holding out his hand for a rope.

  “Let’s go,” Ivy says in an undertone to Sam.

  Behind them, Melchior seems already to have recovered himself, asking Oliver how to work that fire device so he can get back to his wedding. Although she suspects he feels more interested in the device than saving the wedding.

  Soon enough, Oliver has caught up to them, exclaiming over the oddities of risers, saying he had never seen one, how peculiar, how fascinating. As if they are all just pulling off their laboratory coats.

  Ivy watches faces of the crowd, some still interested, most having already dispersed back toward food and dancing. Only one in ten appears frightened.

  She bites her tongue, congratulates Oliver, then accompanies Sam to find a cold drink.

  Sixteenth

  The Price of a Life

  Ivy rises early, plans fully formed in her mind.

  She plows through her black bean tostada and fried egg before any other guests have come down, then paces in her room, relieved her arm scarcely hurts, waiting for Sam and Melchior to get up.

  At least he doubled what they already gave the maker. At the sports and games for the two days of celebrations, the second of which he had his horse, Melchior earned nearly three hundred dollars in bets, prizes, and gambling at every imaginable fandango event.

  A course was set for la sortija, another for carrera del gallo and racing. Not just any races, but relays, matches, a game which involved riders placing coins between knee and saddle leather, then trying to keep the coins there while riding obstacles. Another was simply stopping on a line from a gallop.

  She would not have minded, yet it grew irksome to watch Melchior and Chucklehead, who threw up his heels or snapped at fellow riders and their mounts so often the crowd laughed, pointing him out to one another. And they won. Again and again. Besides the relay, Ivy did not see the pair in a single mounted event which they did not win. She finally stalked away from jolly crowds before witnessing more.

  She should be happy, of course. Not only proud of her cousin’s skill, certainly breathtaking, but also glad over so many winnings in gold dust and silver coins. Yes, that part she is glad for. Yet still only a start, only a splinter off a cathedral.

  Across the crowd, she caught sight of the rangy, mustached man who so briefly owned Chucklehead. His knuckles white, face red. Ivy did not learn how Chucklehead returned, but she knew how that man felt.

  She paces downstairs to the common sitting room. Others for breakfast now, young men speaking Spanish to the girl of all work. No Sam or Melchior.

  So much more they need. And something which needs doing. If only her companions could rouse themselves.

  By the time the cheerful lot at breakfast depart, sun well up, Ivy returns upstairs knock to sharply on Sam and Melchior’s door.

  “The day is half over.” An expression of her uncle�
��s. “May I have a word?”

  A thump and muffled explanation, presumably unfit for civilized ears. Surely they were not still asleep. Although ... how late had the party gone last night? How much did Melchior drink? And would Sam have participated under his friend’s influence?

  Oh well. Wasting time has never seemed such a sin.

  She returns to her room, hunting pen or paper. She would like this shady false sheriff to sign off on whatever they agree upon. No pen or tablet upstairs or down. Something she needs anyway. Perhaps the expected freighter will take mail out? A single chance to get a message to her father? She has discovered the telegraph office in town, yet not once been able to find it open, or find anyone who knows anything about it.

  She again wanders the sitting room. No paper. Not so much as a news journal. Does Mrs. Acker assume none of her boarders are literate? Perhaps not. There are no public schools in New Mexico Territory. She has yet to see an open private one.

  The two young men are down in a few minutes, Melchior grumbling, calling to Señorita for coffee in Spanish.

  His scowl deepens when he catches sight of Ivy. “House on fire?”

  “It is past nine o’clock. There is much to be done.”

  “Ain’t. Party’s over.” He drops onto his accustomed bench in the dining room, wincing, lifting a hand to shade his eyes from sunlight.

  “I have a feeling it is only beginning,” Ivy murmurs as the girl comes in with coffee.

  Sam, on the other hand, appears flushed and apologizes for not being down to breakfast with her. She would be likewise embarrassed to be caught sleeping so late on a summer morning. Or is it still spring?

  After coffee and eggs for Melchior and a mug of hot water with lime for Sam, both pull on hats and Melchior covers his eyes with the dark sungoggles. Before they go out, both men fetch gun belts from their room.

  “Where’re we shifting?” Melchior asks, somewhat revived as he jogs back down the stairs. “Got some idea?

  Sam opens the door for her and offers his arm as they set out.

  “We are finding Grip. Then speaking to the sheriff about the current situation.”

  “How you aim to find either?”

  “It would take only half the day if we went door-to-door for every inhabited home in town.”

  Cody Shannon is just getting into El Rio as they pass. It seems at first he will not help them, frowning uneasily when Melchior asks after Grip. Finally, Shannon tells them to inquire at the farrier’s on the south side of town.

  This leads them to an ancient adobe forge with a scrawny cowpony tied out front. The animal stands uneasily, a hind leg lifted, back arched. A burly, low-set man in leather apron stands with a dejected farmer. They seem to be reaching some conclusion because the farrier shrugs as they walk up and tells the man to come back in the evening. He leaves without the horse.

  “Morning.” Melchior approaches. “Might you know where we can find the man goes by Grip around these parts?”

  The blacksmith, an older man with an implacable expression, gazes at them a moment before speaking in a soft, deep voice, “Who wants to know?”

  Melchior opens his arms in an expansive, unusually friendly gesture. “Trail parters of his, sir. Only aiming to speak with him. Tell him an English gentleman, a cowhand, and a young lady are looking for him. Samuelson, L’Heureux, Jerinson.”

  The stocky man looks them over once more, then turns to walk out an open side of the forge. His shout abbreviates Melchior’s message. “Grip! Three Cripes to see you!”

  The farrier shuffles back to the crowbait and unties a rope to lead it inside, manner gentle with the animal.

  Ivy, Sam, and Melchior wait in sunlight with no invitation to step into shelter. A minute later, Grip, looking sore in both senses of the word, walks up from the back. His gait is tense, though not exactly limping.

  “Good morning, Grip.” Ivy steps forward. “May we have a word?”

  His gaze roves across them, not unlike the farrier’s. He jerks his head over his shoulder and turns. “Feeding my horse.”

  Ivy interprets this as invitation to follow while he sees to the chore. At the back of the forge is a long row of stalls open on the south side, with a few loose boxes and broodmare boxes at the end. Grip’s buckskin stallion looks over a half door at them, chewing a mouthful of hay. Also toward the far end of the row, Yap-Rat lies on dirt, a chunk of cut horse hoof between his paws, chewing on it meditatively. Above the stable runs a walled storage loft or other finished room.

  One-handed, Grip scoops oats from a barrel into a bucket, then adds molasses. When he makes no invitation to speech, Ivy starts. She explains her idea, the profit besides necessity, and the part each can play, glossing over Sam as an extension of Melchior. She has never seen Sam fire a gun, though assumes he must be capable.

  Grip may or may not be listening, going on about his work, mixing the gooey mess with a wooden spoon, adding more oats, mixing, then opening the stall door to wedge the bucket in the manger. Rubbing the stallion’s shoulder as he eats, Grip turns to look at them.

  Ivy falls silent. Grip regards her steadily. She feels the pull to break her own silence under that gaze, ask him if he is interested, if he doesn’t need the money, say it could be a long time before Lobo is back in the territory and this is desperately important. But she remains still and Grip finally speaks.

  “The likelihood of your plan reaching fruition is remote, Miss Jerinson. That man is too thick to recognize either peril or aid.”

  “Yes, I wondered about that,” Ivy says. “But something must be done.”

  He collects his hat and old morning coat from pegs on the wall and Ivy wonders if he lives here.

  Since he did not actually agree, she remains unsure of his intentions, but starts for the sheriff’s office. It seems all are in accordance. Even the dog follows after swallowing his hoof trimming.

  Will the man be about? It must be after ten by now, yet he seems to spend little time in his office.

  Ivy’s step grows lighter when she rounds a corner to see the adobe office door standing wide, coaxing in a breeze as the day warms.

  Ivy enters with Sam. Sheriff Thurman seems to have just dropped into his chair, newspaper across his desk, when he spots them and jumps up.

  “What is being done about risers moving into the area?” Ivy asks. Not how she meant to start and, indeed, the sheriff looks surprised, then irritated.

  “Morning,” he says, stance stiffening, as if facing street urchins, stroking down his mustache with thumb and forefinger. His expression changes as he catches sight of Grip following her, Sam, and Melchior inside. Tension replaces condescension only halfway.

  “This city is in danger,” Ivy says. Might as well. Of course, she did not mean to start out by being rude to the man, thinking of her mother, yet she suspects manners would be taken even less seriously. “This whole Territory. Do you mean to take action to protect it?”

  His eyes narrow. “From what?”

  “Daray’s disease. Santa Fé will be gone within months, perhaps days, if you do not do something.”

  “Is that so?” A faint smile returns. Slowly, he crosses his arms, gazing at her while Ivy refuses to drop her eyes. “And what in thunderation makes you—?”

  “Pardon me, Sheriff Thurman,” Sam says beside Ivy. “You may like to know with whom you speak. There is a Dr. Jerinson of Boston, a research partner to Dr. Daray before that gentleman’s untimely demise. I am sure you know both names.” Sam glances at the paper on the desk between them. “It is possible, in fact, that familiarity desensitizes a man to certain troubles in the world. A great problem may seem small and a small one great when either too much or too little is understood of the subject. This young lady is the daughter of Dr. Jerinson. If she tells you something of risers, of the sickness, you can prove yourself a resourceful man and public servant to the people of Santa Fé by taking her words for gospel.”

  Silence.

  Thurman’s eyes shift back
and forth from Ivy to Sam. “What is it you propose?”

  “We will hunt risers under bounty,” Ivy says. “And protect this city. We can assist in the planning and construction of defenses. Working together, we may stop the threat from without by moving quickly. Failing that, we can turn this city into a fortress before more risers walk up your streets.”

  He regards her steadily. “This sounds mighty expensive, miss.”

  “What is the price of a human life?” Ivy says, blood beating fast in her temples. “Of a city? You surely have resources left here. If you do not utilize them for the defense of Santa Fé, you will have nothing left to serve.”

  “There has been talk of the government sending men. A city should not have to pay for its own protection when a detachment of cavalry performs a better job.”

  “Talk of it? Do you know how many places in the nation are crying out for cavalry right now? If such a detachment is to be sent, why was Fort Marcy stripped? Why is there not a single military man left in town? There is not even a flag flying in the Plaza. There is a stark pole. You may wish to consider carefully before you rest on such promises.”

  For the first time, his gaze falters. He closes his mouth, strokes his mustache once more. Watching him, Ivy is struck by his youth. He can be little older than Melchior, early twenties perhaps? Sam’s age?

  When he seems unable to find a rebuttal and her companions stand in equal silence, Ivy goes on, her tone softer. “There are risers in New Mexico Territory, Sheriff Thurman. From a sickness originating in New York City. Will the government send men when they are needed in Washington? In Chicago and Atlanta, Denver and Philadelphia? Will this Territory even be pointed out on a map? They evacuated those they wished out of Santa Fé when the snow melted. Now ... you have us.”

  The man watches her. The room around them feels charged with humming currents. Ivy hopes her shaking is not visible, closing her fists tighter.

  “As to the defenses of the city ... perhaps the maker has some recommendations,” Thurman says at last. “We may have retired military or gunmen to assist.... As a bounty on these ‘risers,’ the city will pay you ... six dollars for each you dispatch with proof.”