by Tempe O'Kun
Sixes Wild: Echos
Tempe O’Kun
To Sophie, for the courage.
To Megan, for the sass.
Chapter 1
Her face emerges from the front opening, giving her the appearance of an irate, bunny-eared turtle.
My thief, a hare with a gunbelt and a grin, saunters into the office. Her pelt’s as brown as dusty leather and white as clean cotton. She’s a tall thing, wiry as a telegraph line and twice as electrifying. A booted kick clatters the door shut after her. Her smirk shines down at me, like one second of being here strikes out a month of being gone.
A rush like vertigo swoops through me. I straighten as much as my chair allows. My feet are up on the desk, wings crossed as I reclined. I’d been in the middle of correspondence. “Six.”
“Lawbat.” She tips her hat brim up with a clawed thumb. A gleam of silver and metallic blue catch the sunlight at either hip.
A long moment passes through the White Rock sheriff’s office. Outside, the citizenry clatters and chatters by, unaware their local constabulary is feeling outclassed by a doe bunny in trousers. My heart demands I leap up to kiss her, but I’m caught at a crosswind of emotion. A whole month she’s been wild and in the wind. Were I not a gentleman, I’d have strong words for her. Were I not obligated to keep the town safe, I’d have been on the wing after her. “Thought you had a lion to run down.”
“Hayes has gone to ground. Haven’t got mah gun back either.” Panting, she winks. “’Bout the only thing that could turn my month around is you.”
With a wry look, I grab a canteen from beside my desk. It sloshes, half full, as I toss it to her.
She catches it, spins the cap off, and gulps greedily. We have this easy read on each other. It calls to mind scandalous moments of cooperation.
For the hundredth time, I want to ask her to stay, but can’t think of any means to justify such an imposition. I retreat to niceties. “Lovely to see you. Pleasant day, isn’t it?”
A few swallows later, she swings the canteen from her lips. The wind whistling past its opening tells me it’s emptied. “Ah!” She wipes her muzzle. “Much obliged, Blake.” She hangs the vessel by its strap on my hat rack. The steel cap, strung on a length of cord, drums to mark time as the canteen swings. “Drier ‘an a saloon on nickel night out there.”
Twirling the pen with my feet, I steeple my wing fingers. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Her boots tap along the floorboards, then grinds an inch of grit as she spins on a heel to face me. Her grin gleams. “Ah need a reason to visit?”
I roll my eyes. “So it would seem.”
A flicker of sadness steals that smile, which I feel a pang of guilt about. But then she bounces back, leaning beside the window, blue eyes like a glimpse at the sky. One fuzzy digit rises. “Ah have a notion.”
“Dare I ask?” Twirling the pen between my toes, I try to focus on my paperwork. Got a telegram about some martens calling themselves the Pine City Gang, who could well be in my area. White Rock needs a good sheriff. I like to think I fit the bill, yet I get precious little done when she’s around. She always has illicit little plans for me.
She rests her paws on those revolvers, one a silver heirloom, the other a blue steel substitute. “A spot of treasure hunting.”
I look up from my bookkeeping to take account of Six. One never can tell how serious she takes her tomfoolery.
“Ah’ve been hearin’ rumors.” She brushes the dust from her fluffy tail. “Folk tell of a cliff-house with all manner of lost riches.”
With a sigh, I lean back in my chair, steeple my wings, and put away the pen with one foot. “I wouldn’t put much stock in saloon scuttlebutt.”
“Nor would ah, but ah heard it from an old ‘yote traveling with the circus.”
My wing fingers interlace. I wish I knew her better, and not just because I’d like to know if she’s poking fun at me. “If he knew where all this treasure was, why was he traveling with a circus?”
“He said it was cursed.” Her dextrous paws dance theatrically. “Everybody who went lookin’ met a gristly end.”
“So, naturally, you want to go there posthaste and ensnare yourself in said curse.”
“Utter hokum-bunkum.” Her smile implies I’m the harebrained one here. “No such thing as curses.”
I tap a wing finger to my lips, contemplating, then point it her way. “You’re carrying around a gun that gives you visions of your father’s ghost.”
“Bein’ helpfully haunted leaves me suited to suss out the truth in such matters.” She pats the silver gun. “The true shine on the matter’s this: the supposed cache is hardly a day’s travel from here.”
“Big desert out there, Six.”
“Which is why ah helped mahself to a look around.” The hare cocks her hips with a creak of gunbelt leather. “After a few days, these little titters a’ mischief kept pricklin’ mah ears, right at the edge of hearin’.”
“And you’d finally lost your faculties.”
“Mah faculties are found and firmly fixed, thank you.” Her arms cross, little curls of dust trailing off in the sunbeam she splits. “Took me a spell to figure out it wasn’t a sound: just a notion buzzin’ in the stone. ‘Yotes love buildin’ near mirror ore, and that means...”
Still spinning the pen with my toes, I point it her way. “...echoes.”
“Just that. So ah picked mahself up from the dirt where ah’d collapsed and high-tailed it back here.” She jerked her thumb at the window, toward the sweaty pony tied to the post outside. I recognize it as Pumpernickel, the bay she stole from me a while ago. “Figure that means mah lead’s golden. Who knows what else might be?”
“And I’m along to, what? Drag you back when the echoes overwhelm your well-tenured faculties?”
“To ensure mah sweet little bunny self doesn’t come to harm.” She shines me a look of great innocence. “And help me carry the loot back.”
A laugh flies from my muzzle. “I strive not to burglarize my neighborhood.” I straighten my vest, finding a tiny spot of jam from breakfast, and scraping it away with a claw. “You ought to try it sometime.”
“But there’s the crux, Blake: the ‘yotes don’t live there.” Her fingertip traces along the brim of that hat, drawing my gaze to the stormy blues under its shade. “Never have. Some other band left it long ago.”
My ears droop at her tall tale. “Why would they leave their treasures behind?”
“Can’t say ah’m well versed in the ways of natives. You’d have to ask yer deputy.” She waves a paw in the vague direction of the town. “Probably outta respect for their ancestors or some such.”
I press a thumb and finger to my eyes, then slide them down my muzzle. “And it’s just waiting for an enterprising hare to happen upon it?”
“If she has a bat’s-eye view on matters.” Boots squeaking the floorboards, she ambles toward me.
“I’m very much in doubt of any treasure, bewitched or otherwise, hidden in the mountains.” I gesture to the hills beyond my tidy office. “They’ve been heavily prospected, back during the silver rush.”
She plants her paws on my desk and leans in with a poker-face smile. “If yer so dead-set there’s no trouble to be had, then ya ought to have no objection to comin’ with me.”
I chuckle. My old law professors would never forgive me if I bungled into so obvious a rhetorical trap. “I hardly think that follows.”
Those stormy eyes meet mine. Her ears droop over the brim of her hat. Something sweet grows in the gravel of her voice. “Ah’ll owe ya a day.”
My heart skips a beat, then capers through several more.
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“’Sides...” She winks. “It’ll give ya some notion of how exciting and dangerous mah life is.”
I roll my eyes, resigned to following her on this little adventure. If nothing else, it should be a chance to spend time with the slippery thief.
Desert winds sweep under my wings as I swoop down to a landing. Red dust scatters in a double arc. The rocky ground burns under my feet.
Six stands up from a bolder she’d been seated on, flicking her cigarette into the scree. “Well?”
I straighten my vest. This new one always rides up when I fly. Then I smile at her. “Your quest may not be a fool’s errand after all.”
Those shapely ears popping upward, she perks up bodily. “You saw something?”
“I saw a tumbledown entrance to a cliff dwelling. No stairs to speak of and it’s tucked away in a gully.” My wings fold up with a flourish. “I can see why a non-flighted treasure hunter would miss it.”
“Gettin’ fonder a’ those wings all the time.” Silken paws run up their membranes, against the grain of the fine hairs there.
I shiver, then stretch my wings for another flight. “Give me a launch, would you?”
“Surely will, lawbat.” She crouches to let me hop on her shoulders. Once she has me at a disadvantage, her ears spring up against the front of my trousers. “You know ah’ll get ya up anytime.”
Warmth rushes my cheeks and ears, having nothing to do with the pleasant heat of the day. The next instant, she bounces, hard, and propels me skyward. In my discombobulated state, I require a few awkward flaps to get the currents under me. Having taken to the air, I spiral up on the desert drafts to the top of a mesa. I land and regain my composure. That hare beams her wiles at me with the regularity of a lighthouse, and yet I’m still shocked by their power when they catch me by surprise.
Half an hour’s tough climb and rougher language later, Six manages to follow. She claws her way to the crest and takes a swig from her canteen. From there, I lead her on a jaunt across the tops of the buttes.
She seems not overly conversational, and I can’t think of anything to say. I let the conversation slacken. We hike on in silence, though I do stay grounded to encourage her. My ears perk as her boot steps slow. “Six?” I turn.
Staggering, she swoons into a lopsided dance. Her voice trails off in a mumble. Dust scuffs up from her shuffled steps as she teeters on the brink of a fall.
For an instant, I think the desert hare’s finally succumbed to heat sickness, but then pluck a few words from her muttering.
“Ah can’t understand y’all when ya yap at once.” She swipes a paw at empty space, then keels casually over. “Confounded yotes...”
I scramble to prop her up. “Whoa now!” With her half-draped over me, I slow our crash landing. Now seated on the dirt, sparkles of silver on the ground catch my eye. I’d bet my best jar of black currant jelly that it’s mirror ore. I turn my attention to the senseless bunny. Not eager to carry her the rest of the way, I rattle her by the shoulders. “Hey!”
Her blue eyes blink open. She shakes her head, ears flopping. “Gettin’ noisy up here…”
I notice the half-buried remains of a structure here, adobe and stone built up in piles that’d looked natural from a distance. Must have been a ‘yote dwelling of some kind. I throw her arm over my shoulder and press on. With considerable effort, I manage to drag her to her feet and further along the butte. A few dozen yards away, the ground stops twinkling.
As we put distance between ourselves and the ore dust, Six’s ears slowly rise. Her weight leaves my shoulders. “Beg yer pardon, lawbat.” She straightens with an abashed expression, adjusts her collar, and fluffs her tail. “Just some ghosts gettin’ the drop on me.”
“I don’t suppose they mentioned anything of use?”
“’Fraid not.” She props her paw on the silver pistol at her hip. A blue steel replacement glints at the other, though not as bright. “Echoes aren’t as direct as a telegram.”
“Pity.” I give her another glance, watching for any residual signs of ore exposure. “Come on. It’s not much further.”
Another hundred yards, then we trudge up shallow a scree slope. I flutter here and there, the occasional pointy rock punishing my lack of boots. At last, we reach a gray crumble of canyon. Bands of red rock stand exposed here, like much of the rest of the territory, but close inspection reveals the obvious sheer marks of tools.
“Why’re we stoppin’?” She pants. Her paws prop against her knees as she looks up at me between wilted ears.
I sweep a wing at our destination. “Your treasure cave, madam.”
“That’s a pile a’ rocks, lawbat.” A sour look crosses her sweet muzzle. “Ah could’ve found the same on the desert floor.”
After some scrambling and squabbling, I take her by the shoulders and glide to the entrance. She hollers the whole way, even after I deposit her in a dusty and irregular doorway.
Exquisite murals run the walls, carvings of desert tortoises in fantastical scenarios. Some are emerging from the Earth, others are taking the shape of mountains. “This is truly fascinating. This tribe must have revered them for their ability to survive in the desert.”
“Never found them overburdened with wit.” Her glance casts over the carvings. She adjusts the coil of rope slung over her shoulder. “Ah had one scuttle up to squat in my shadow. Thought ah was a shade tree.”
“I can attest you’re a shady character. Though it is quite pleasant under your shade.” I fondle her supple ears, like the leaves of some exotic plant.
“You keep yer wings to yourself, mister.” She swats my wing away. “Ah know when ah’m bein’ sassed.”
We walk deeper into the dark passage. With a climate this dry, it’s tough to determine just how long the place has been abandoned. One would expect the air to have the musty mold of ancient decay, but it’s scarcely dustier than outside and cooler to a refreshing degree.
Six pulls a torch and matchbox from her bag of treasure-seeking supplies. Balancing, I hold the torch helpfully in one foot as she strikes a match and sheds light on our exploits. Topaz, lapis, and aquamarine glint from the mosaics of the walls. Six takes the torch back with barely a glance at the astounding artwork, and we press on.
My first inkling that something’s amiss comes when those murals begin to change. Gone are the depictions of placid desert-dwelling tortoises; ominous looking snappers take their place, jagged maws gaping menacingly.
“Let’s get to that treasure.” She fairly bounces down the tunnel. Her boots make a steady stamp down the echoing space.
I spy a glimmer of metal in one of the lower alcoves. In the dim light, I see the faint outline of a tortoise statuette, about knee-high. With such dry air, it too appears untouched by time.
Her boot clomps down on a rounded bulge on the floor. The tile emits a soft click. The grind of stone reverberates from the wall.
My wing seizes her shoulder, yanking her back.
A flash of copper lurches in front of us.
Snap!
The mechanical turtle chomps shut with enough force to curl dust from its body.
Six jumps about three feet in the air, head almost hitting the ceiling. “What in blue blazes!”
“Put those pretty ears of your to use.” I point at the tile she compressed.
As the mechanical guardian retreats on its little track, the stone rises with another soft click. The passage stands as harmless as ever.
She hikes one foot at a time to check that they’re undamaged. “Who puts a leg-chompin’ beast like that in a burrow?”
After checking for any additional plates, I kneel to examine the mechanism. The trap sits in its alcove, quite inert. It’s made of copper, with a ceramic overlay on the shell. “I suspect it’s part of the tortoise motif. This is a temple, after all.”
“On the contrary, my dear Six Shooter.” I raise a wing finger, invoking a tone often used by my old professors. “We’re going to take to heart the lesson this temple is meant to teach us.”
She lifts one ear at me. “Meanin’ what, exactly?”
“Slow and steady wins the race.” I lead her very slowly past the snapping turtle trap.
“That’s just somethin’ slow folk say.” Even as she sasses me, her eyes never leave the floor, searching for more loose tiles. The dust makes it difficult, obscuring all but the widest gaps in the floor.
“I am simply offering you the best chance at getting through this tunnel unbitten.”
The bunny’s expression darkens as she alights on the realization I might be right. She grumbles after me in the dim passage, lit only by the occasional air shaft.
We continue on and on. After an hour of patient progress, we clear the last of the alcoves. Around us, the tunnel opens into a small, round chamber. I give a laugh of relief. “Not quite how I pictured this adventure.”
The gunslinger regards me with sour peevishness. She passes by a strange, notched pole near the center of the room. She comes to the far end of the space, finds a round portal and gives the tortoise-tail handle a shake.
It doesn’t budge.
I try to inspire her to patience by demonstration. An inspection of the gloom above me shows strange protrusions in a domed ceiling.
She tries the handle again, harder, but equally negative results. “It’s jammed.”
“Or locked.” I scratch under my chin, studying the carvings ringing the room. “These engravings could hold the key.”
“Aren’t any hinges on this side, so it’s gotta open the other way.” She throws her weight against the door. Again, to no effect.
