Finished with his work, the old man—a shaman, thought Caleb—ceased his song, and the coyote familiar trotted over to resume its place by his side. The ancient one looked to Caleb once more, touching his arm gently with a gnarled hand, then pointed toward the tree line.
“You . . . want me to go?”
The old man nodded happily when Caleb mimicked his pointing. He rambled off a cheerful string of syllables, all the while gesturing with his hands in between patting Caleb’s shoulder.
“Ernst?”
“You’d rather stay here?”
“Point taken.” Still having very little idea what exactly had happened this night, Caleb walked slowly through the village, toward the dark forest. Though he kept expecting to feel an arrow between his shoulder blades, no one moved to stop him. No one even made a sound.
He raised his foot, stepping from the village’s cleared circle into the brush and bracken of the wood, and the moment his boot touched the earth again, the village was gone. The light and warmth vanished as if they’d never been, and Caleb found himself alone with Ernst in the timber. The moon had set hours ago, leaving them in impenetrable darkness.
“Great. Where the hell are we, Ernst?”
“I’m not sure.” The jackalope sat erect on Caleb’s arm, peering about the darkness. “I think . . . Is that your transport over there?”
Sure enough, the dim blue glow resolved itself into the swirling casing windows on Sven Isby’s rented hauler. Caleb had never been so glad to see a piece of machinery in all his life. Even better was the realization that he could clearly see the trail he’d ridden in on and that he knew his way home from here. “Next time I decide to walk into Indian territory alone, knock me in the head with something.”
“Deal.”
Chapter 10
The long ride back to Hope on the hauler only served to emphasize every scrape, gouge, bruise, and burn Caleb had received over the length of his long, strange night. He hurt in places he hadn’t known he had, and the only thing worse than riding the transport would be getting off and lying down for the night, when he’d stiffen up.
Of course, if it weren’t for the injuries, he might have convinced himself that he’d suffered some surreal hallucination or bizarre dream. He was still at a loss to see what his visit to the Cheyenne village had accomplished. What had the old shaman wanted with him?
He had no doubts that had the old man wanted, he could have erased Caleb from the face of the earth. The ancient shaman Wind Walker had decimated the U.S. Army and thirty Peacemakers. One half-scoured man would prove no obstacle to someone of that power. And the old man was powerful. He’d healed the land in the less time than it would take Caleb to think of the proper words to say, not to mention that Caleb never had that kind of finesse. Brute force required less skill than delicate work.
“You’re very quiet.” Ernst was curled in front of him in the saddle this time, instead of taking his usual perch behind. His solid weight, no matter how sleight, was comforting.
“I don’t have a lot to say just now.”
“What are you going to do about the mine?”
Caleb shrugged, and his muscles protested the unnecessary movement. “Nothing I really can do. I could arrest Schmidt and those miners for violating Indian territory and technically breaking the peace treaties, but no court would convict them. And other than that, I don’t know that they’re doing anything wrong.”
“You don’t think they destroyed that village to clear the way for another mine?” Ernst looked up, his brown eyes shining in the dark.
“Oh, I’m certain they did. But I can’t prove it, and no one back east is going to grieve for a few more dead Cheyenne.” Caleb sighed, but it was a sad truth of the world.
“And the children? If Warner’s stockpiling nullstone at his place, it’s very likely that he’s caused all those children irreparable harm.”
“I need proof, Ernst. And I can’t take on Warner and his thugs alone.” He ran a hand over his face, feeling the sting of a few forgotten scratches in the stubble on his cheeks. “What I need is an independent medical opinion, some parents willing to let their children be examined, and a few more Peacemakers to do a search of the ranch.”
The jackalope nuzzled his hand. “What you need is a few hours’ sleep. In the morning, we’ll send a telegram for reinforcements.”
“That’s the best plan I’ve heard all night, Ernst.” He smiled, scratching his familiar’s long silky ears.
The sight of Hope rising out of the prairie was one of the most welcome things Caleb had seen during the long day and night. The little outpost was dark, and even the dogs were asleep as he rode in. The sun would rise in a couple of hours, and Caleb knew he had to get what little sleep he could. First light would bring its own set of new problems.
He hoped against hope that Teddy hadn’t locked the tavern door, or he’d wind up sleeping in one of the rickety chairs on the sidewalk.
Ernst rose up, paws balanced on the saddle’s horn as he peered into the night. “Caleb? The light is on in the general store.”
“Maybe Hector’s an early riser.” His stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he’d given every bite of his food away. “Maybe he has some breakfast.” With a twitch of the reins, they changed course and headed toward the general store.
Before they’d gone more than ten yards, the silence of the predawn morning was shattered as the doors to the store crashed open, glass tinkling as it scattered over the wooden sidewalk. Three men bolted into the street, dashing around the corner of the building before Caleb could identify them. A fourth man walked calmly through the broken glass, pausing to glance toward the stunned Peacemaker for a moment before following his cohorts. There was no mistaking Schmidt’s slight build, or cold-as-ice demeanor, even from a distance.
Caleb kicked the hauler into higher gear, but four sleek transports galloped out of the alleyway and toward the prairie before he could even think of getting close. There was no way his ungainly mount would catch them. Instead, he slid out of the saddle before the machine had even fully halted, his boots crunching glass underfoot as he headed inside. “Hector? Hector, are you here?”
Flour was strewn about the floor like a layer of fine snow, marred with boot prints and the tracks of canned goods that had rolled across it. One set of shelves had toppled over, the contents lying in a heap where it had fallen. The pungent smell of pickle brine permeated the room, and shards of glass jars crunched underfoot as Caleb stepped inside. Somewhere behind the counter, molasses was dripping forlornly, the wet splat keeping time as regular as any clock.
Unsure whether he could channel a spark, let alone any respectable show of force, Caleb drew his pistol out of the holster instead and cocked it. “Be ready, Ernst.”
The little jackalope cautiously picked his way through the debris, his nose quivering so fast it was almost a blur. “I can’t smell anything over the damned pickles.”
“Use your ears then.” Caleb himself strained for any sound, but all he could hear was the steady drip-drip of the broken molasses cask and the thudding of his own heart in his ears. A floorboard creaked underfoot, and they both froze for a long, tense moment.
Just when he had decided to take the next step, Caleb heard a soft noise that might have been missed in the rustle of his clothing had he been moving. It could have been the low bleat of a calf, far distant and barely audible, but it came again almost immediately. A man moaning.
Ernst’s ears pricked straight up. “Behind the counter.”
The first thing Caleb saw was two long gangly legs sticking out from behind the counter, the dark pants covered in flour and whatever else had spilled all over the floor.
“Dear God, Hector!” Quickly, Caleb scrambled to reach him.
The shopkeeper’s face was almost unrecognizable, as bruised and swollen as it was. Both eyes were caked shut with d
ried blood, and his lips were split and purple, the spittle and other fluids serving to stick his face to the wooden floor. He was breathing, which was a good sign, but the raspy rattle in his lungs spoke of blood there, possibly from broken ribs. As Caleb knelt over him, Hector moaned again, so softly.
“Ernst, fetch the doc!” The familiar was gone before he’d finished the sentence. “Easy, Hector. I’m here. The doc’s coming. Just hang on.”
The four thugs had beaten the man badly. Caleb could see the imprints of boots on his forehead where he’d been savagely kicked. His hands were bloodied and scraped, with at least two fingers bent at wrong angles. Who knew what other injuries were internal, hidden by his clothes? The Peacemaker didn’t dare try to move him without knowing.
Hector moaned again, louder, as consciousness started to return. “Shh, help is coming, Hector.” The older man stirred feebly, trying to fend off attackers long fled. Caleb did his best to press the shopkeeper’s hands down gently, trying to avoid the broken fingers. “Don’t try to move. You’re safe. I’m here. It’s Agent Marcus. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
More boots thumped on the wooden planks outside, and Caleb leveled his pistol at the door just as Teddy came bursting through the opening. The bartender immediately dropped to the floor with a startled yell, and Caleb pulled his shot, sending a round into the ceiling. “Sweet mother Mary, Agent Marcus!”
“Sorry, Teddy, wasn’t expecting friends.” Caleb stuffed his pistol in its holster before something else could go wrong. “It was Warner’s men. Did you see them?”
“Me? No . . . But we were looking for you.”
“We?” The Peacemaker fished a handkerchief from his pocket to try to staunch some of the blood flow, but there was only so much the tiny scrap of cloth could do.
“I’m here, Agent Marcus.” It was Miss Sinclair’s voice, with a faint quaver behind it. “I saw them. I saw all of them, and I ran to find you, but you weren’t at the saloon. . . .”
“No . . . no, I wasn’t.” Dammit. Damn them all to hell. If he’d just been there . . . “Did they see you, Ellen? Do they know you saw them?”
She nodded. “Schmidt looked right at me out the window. I don’t know about the others. I ran.”
“You did the right thing. Here, come help me hold this bandage down.” As she came to kneel beside him, Caleb pressed her hand down over the sodden handkerchief. “I’ll be right back.”
Outside, the night was still. The yellow lights from inside the store vied with the blue glow of his hauler, but other than that, the town slept on, oblivious to the violence done in their midst. And the perpetrators were long gone.
Time dragged on with excruciating slowness as they waited for the doctor to arrive. Teddy took his turn packing Hector’s wounds with whatever they could find while Ellen shredded her petticoat to aid in the bandaging, but even that wasn’t going to be enough. Several times, Hector tried to speak or sit up, but his words were garbled at best and his body simply wouldn’t follow his commands any longer. Every time he lapsed into silence again, Caleb nervously counted the seconds between labored breaths, fearful that each one would be the last.
Just when he was about to go looking for the doctor himself, the bell above the door jangle. It was the sweetest sound Caleb had heard yet. “Agent Marcus? Hector?”
“Behind the counter, Dr. Elm!” As the good doctor bustled around the counter, Caleb stood to get out of the way and helped Ellen to her feet.
“Oh, Lord.” He was still dressed in his nightshirt, but had thrown pants on inside out for the hasty trip across town. He set his black bag on the floor, immediately examining the beaten shopkeeper. “Ernst, are you here?”
The jackalope blinked into existence atop the counter. “I’m here, Doctor.”
“I may need your aid, little friend, once we get Mr. Pratt moved to his bed.” The doctor’s hands moved efficiently over Hector’s injuries, eliciting small moans of pain when he found something else that had been abused. “Did you see who did this, Agent Marcus?” Though the doctor’s voice remained calm, Caleb could hear the suppressed anger there.
Caleb glanced toward Ellen, noting the pallor of her face beneath the blood smudged on her cheek. When she opened her mouth to answer, he shook his head, and she remained silent. “Not a good look, sir. They fled as I arrived.” The fewer people who knew about what Ellen had witnessed, the better.
“Thank the Lord that you happened by when you did. He’s been severely beaten.” He spared one glance at the standing Peacemaker. “But of course you could see that. See if you can find a plank of some kind, something we can put him on so we don’t jostle the broken ribs when we move him.”
“Yes, sir.” Hector didn’t keep a lot of lumber in the store, but inspection revealed a broken shelf half hanging off the wall that might fit the bill. Caleb wrenched it free of its nails, motioning for Teddy to take up the other end.
“Will this do, doctor?” The shelf would apparently serve quite well, and with the doctor’s instructions, he and Teddy managed to get Hector’s lanky frame rolled over onto it.
“If you gentlemen could carry him up to his room with a minimum of jostling, I have to fetch a few more things from my office. I’ll return shortly. Miss Sinclair, get him settled into his bed and find some washbasins and fresh water.” The doctor bustled out, and Caleb and Teddy struggled mightily to get the shopkeeper up to the stairs without causing him more injury.
On the downhill side of the maneuver, Caleb struggled to keep the plank level, holding it nearly at chin level, with his shoulder propped under it for support. There was a great deal of grunting on Teddy’s end, too. Hector was not a small man by any means, and his very height made things difficult.
Halfway up the stairs, Caleb paused to change his grip, the wooden shelf grinding splinters into his palm. Quickly, he grabbed a large one with his teeth, yanking it out and spitting it aside. Blood welled in his hand, dark and shimmering red. “Stretcher bearer! I need a stretcher bearer here!”
“What did you say?” Caleb tried to look over the precariously balanced plank to see Teddy, but all he could make out was the top of the Scot’s head as he shook it to the negative. “I dinnae say anythin’.”
“Fall back! They’re coming over the ridge!” Before Caleb’s eyes, a battle scene bloomed. Through the smoke and the haze, stretcher bearers in Union blue uniforms dodged cannon fire and arcane blasts as they tried to get the dead and wounded off the field of battle. He could hear the whistle of the incoming artillery, smelled the sulfur and ozone stench of the augmented gunpowder, and for a brief moment, he was there again, deaf to all but the boom of the cannons and the screams of dying men.
“Agent Marcus!” Pale hands tugged at his sleeves, poked and prodded him. “Agent Marcus, you’re going to drop him!” Ellen Sinclair threw her shoulder against the plank as it started to slide from his fingers, bracing it as best she could. “Agent Marcus! Ernst, help me!”
Something sharp stabbed into his calf, startling him out of the visions of battles past. Looking down, he found his familiar looking back up at him, Ernst’s vicious teeth sunk through the fabric of Caleb’s pants. The jackalope shrugged, mumbling something that sounded like “It was all I could think of” through a mouthful of cloth.
“I got it. Here . . .” He muscled his way under the slipping plank, gently nudging the schoolteacher aside. “I’m all right. I have him.”
“Ye got it, Agent?”
“I got it,” he repeated. “Quickly, Teddy.” Before another flashback caught him. He could feel blood trickling down his leg where Ernst bit him. The little creature hadn’t been teasing.
Together, he and Teddy got Hector carefully deposited on his narrow bed. The shopkeeper didn’t make a sound as they transferred him from the makeshift stretcher to his blankets, and that silence worried Caleb more than any amount of pained moaning would have. Ther
e was a sickly tint to the old man’s face that Caleb had seen before, in the pallor of so many soldiers—wearing both gray and blue—and it rarely ended well.
Even that brief thought brought the walls closing in, and the summer’s oppressive heat seemed cool compared to the stifling oven that was Hector’s small room above the store. The moment the doctor returned, Caleb escaped outside and stood on the wooden walk, gulping fresh air. He gripped the railing until his knuckles were white and throbbing.
Ernst appeared, balancing his furry little form on the rail no wider than two of Caleb’s fingers. He said nothing, but pressed himself against the Peacemaker’s arm, purring softly.
The townsfolk came out of the dark, most still wearing their nightclothes, asking horrified questions as they entered the store. Word traveled fast in a small town, even in the dead of night. None of them seemed to pay Caleb much mind, concerned as they were for Hector’s well-being. Someone quickly organized a cleanup of the store, and several women returned to their homes to begin making breakfast for all involved.
His eyes fixed firmly on the ground, Caleb saw them come and go by only the hems of their dresses. The dry, dusty Kansas soil seemed a safe place to let his gaze linger. Surely that wouldn’t conjure visions of the war and the horrors he’d seen. “When’s it going to end, Ernst?”
The familiar only increased the volume of his purr. Perhaps he didn’t have an answer, either.
“Hsst!”
The sound came twice more before Caleb looked up, frowning as he tried to locate the peculiar noise.
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