Echoes

by Tempe O'Kun

  “I’ll grant you it’s not suitable for when I’m on duty.” He pats his travel bag with a fond wing. “It’s far less overstated than my grapevine one, however. Or even the peach tree one.”

  I refrain from informing him what I think the peach one looks like.

  We hike down the dusty rails as the ghost town comes into view. A collection of shacks huddles around a pale adobe fort. Several spots on it bear char marks, where someone learned you can’t burn down an earthen wall.

  He gives it a sidelong look. “You’re sure this place is above board?”

  I shrug. “Might bilk a fool now and then, but from what ah’ve heard, when it comes to trading echoes, there’s no finer establishment.”

  “I’ll need you to nail down some of these specifics for me.” He straightens his gunbelt, looking to the silver gun on mine. “What echoes can and can’t do.”

  Muzzle tilted down, I cast a coy glance his way. “Why’ve you gotta make everything about rules?”

  His wings cross over that fine little vest. “Rules are how we make sense of the world.”

  “Fine, fine.” I tug my hat down against the hot wind. “Rule one: near as ah can figure, only trinkets with some amount of the ore can echo.” I pat my father’s gun, still a trifle tender about a certain lion pilfering the second one. Ought to let him keep a few of the bullets when I get it back.

  “I see.” Blake dances as his bare toe touches the sun-hot train rail.

  I struggle not to smile. “Rule two: gotta be handled by somebody a while before they kick the bucket.”

  The lawbat nods, all studious. How his professors put up with him at that highfaluting law college, I’ll never know.

  “Rule three: some folk are better than others at hearin’ echoes.” I raise my ears to the hot wind, but hear nothing save the scour of sand and the whisper of weeds. “Some can’t do it worth a lick, such as you.”

  He rolled his eyes, looking more like gold dust than coffee grounds in this light. “Then why bother bringing me?”

  “In case ah get walloped by an echo and keel over. Folk get shady this far out in the desert.” I put on a dignified look for him. “A lawman’s pistol at their backs oughta head off any riflin’ through mah pockets.”

  “Delightful.” The lawbat crosses his wings. “Never let it be said you don’t take me nice places.”

  I lean within nibbling distance of his ear. “Seem to recall takin’ you all kinds of nice places in the sleeper car last night.”

  That flusters him some.

  My boots crunch along the dusty ground. “Must admit ah’m pleased you don’t think I’m buying into old legends.”

  “The evidence falls on the side of echoes being more than superstition, foremost among which is your not being dead.” He examines the claw of a wing finger. “That said, I would take it as a kindness if you took fewer risks.”

  I shrug. “World’s a dangerous place.”

  His look sharpens to a glare. “Especially around you.”

  “Exactly.” I grin. “’Sides, ah got lov—” My hot ears drop against the brim of my hat. “—luck on mah side and the law by it. That counts for something.”

  He flutters his wings on the hot breeze. “You’ll have an easier time convincing me of echoes from the afterlife than luck.”

  We walk a distance further. I can see a figure slinking along the high adobe walls. Some manner of cat. A long rifle glints in his paw. I can tell by the tilt of his ears that he’s got an eye for us.

  Unaware, Blake clears his throat. “The family back east has been after me to visit. If you’re game for another train ride after this, I’d welcome your company, to say nothing of your support.”

  I grimace. “’Fraid ah’d scandalize the delicate darlings.”

  He snickered a little laugh of agreement. “Maybe we should start with your relations.”

  “Ah’d scandalize them worse.”

  We near the massive wooden gate. A sun-bleached sign arches above it: Fort Calico.

  The heavy door swings open.

  A full set of wolverine teeth come out to greet us. “You here to cause trouble?”

  “No, ma’am.” Blake straightens to show off his badge.

  A moment blows by on the dusty breeze.

  My thumb traces the brim of my hat. “You lettin’ us in?”

  Greed and fear wrestle on her face. With a shallow snarl, she waddles back from the door. She’s squat, like a cast-iron stove, and a slight curl to her lips hints at temper simmering behind those brown eyes. “What’d ya want?”

  “Some particulars.” My arms cross over my breasts. “Maybe lookin’ to make purchases. Ah’ve heard talk you sell echoes.”

  She studies us more, like anybody could make sense of me traveling with a fancy little thing like Blake. Her heavy fists plant on stout hips.

  I scoff, though I make sure I’m clear of those clawed hands first. “You always so friendly to customers?”

  “C’mon.” The wolverine stumps back toward the buildings.

  The bat and I trade looks. He sweeps a wing out like a gentleman, his grin saying he’s happy to have me deal with the charming old wolverine.

  Pass by an number of battered buildings on our way. Most look to have been here since the construction of the fort. All look in need of repair. We arrive at what used to be the general store. The cat opens the front door for us. A woozy feeling rushes over me, followed by whispers on the edge of hearing, whispers not of the living world. One more step and the world’s awash in whispers—it’s sweeping me away until strong wing fingers close around my elbow. I blink and grit my teeth, dropping my ears and fix a serious on my muzzle.

  We amble inside the shop. Shelves offer a whole mess of items: sacks of grain, boxes of bullets, tins of salt and pepper. Everything from clothes to kettles hang from the rafters, with barrels of sugar, vinegar, flour, and molasses standing guard below.

  The trader stomps behind the till. She sweeps a thick paw at the trays of glimmering baubles lining the counter. Silver, mostly, with the odd rock tossed in.

  “That’s some ace-high jewelry.” I tilt my ears back and smile all charming. “Where ya keepin’ the echoes?”

  She leans forward on the counter. “Maybe you’re not listening close enough.”

  “Bosh. These wouldn’t echo a cuss in a cave.” I tilt a finger down at the gewgaws. “That much mirror ore shoulda knocked me flat on mah tail.” My fingertip slides the tray to one side, all slow and serious. “Ah’m lookin’ for silver that won’t tarnish, guns that aim yer hands.”

  Those wolverine teeth show up again, this time in a smile, which is only a touch less alarming. She turns her head to shout upstairs. “Striker! Get your tail down here. And bring the goods.”

  A bobcat pads down the stairs with a grin and two bandoleers. By the slink of his step, I’d venture he’s the one who watched us from the wall. In his paws, he’s got a strongbox and a bottle of wine. He fishes four glasses from behind the counter and lines them up on the counter. With a few deft motions, he slices the sealing wax with a claw, cranks a corkscrew in, and tugs the cork free with a deep plunk. In his spotted paw, the red wine flows in easy arcs into each glass. Pours a little extra into the last one, but he sees to that glass himself.

  Our host produces a box of cigars, gnaws the end off one, and sets the other end in her muzzle.

  With a snap of clawed fingers, the cat flicks a match from nowhere and lights her cigar.

  I snicker. “That how you got your name?”

  “One of the reasons, amigo.” Another snap flares a match against his paw pads and straight at me. The sputtering flame whizzes through my whiskers in a streak of brimstone.

  I try to make my freezing from surprise look like grit. “Well, mah name’s Six Shooter.” I let one paw drop to my father’s gun. “If ya need
a demonstration a’ why, just say.”

  Sheriff Blake fires a warning look at me.

  I sit on a barrel of sugar, smiling just as sweet. Few things in life leave as bitter a taste as my lawbat being right. No sense letting that fool stir me up.

  “Oooh, fiery.” The feline rumbles a flirtatious purr my way and prowls forward on the counter. “I like men who are a little dangerous.”

  My ears drop in a furious blush. He couldn’t possibly know I’m a woman. No. This furball’s toying with me. Either he’s trying to rile me, or he’s actually taken a shine. I find my mouth stammering, so I clamp it shut and ignore the heat under my cheek ruffs. Damn sly bobcat, making a fool out of me.

  “Striker, don’t burn my store down.” Cigar in her teeth, the trader throws a damp rag onto the match smoldering on her floor, which dies with a hiss. “And don’t make a mash on the customers.” After a few puffs, she waves the cigar at us. “You mind if I smoke?”

  “Why would we?” Surly, I hook my thumbs in my gunbelt. “Blowin’ smoke’s about all you’ve done since we got here.”

  A big growl of a laugh cuts through the room. “I can’t go sellin’ my best wares to any fool walking in the door. Most folks want good-luck charms and worry stones. They want their fill of a story and half a mystery for their money.”

  I lean forward on the barrel and keep my ears down to hide the blush. “Not the pony ah’m fixin’ to buy.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Her heavy paw closes around the flimsy glass.

  The fruit bat, looking wholly too amused, swirls his wineglass with a cordial grin. “You’ll have to excuse my companion. He gets a little carried away now and again.” He takes a seat on the barrel next to mine and sweeps a wing to his heart. “I’m Sheriff Jordan Blake, from White Rock. And you are...?”

  “Minerva.” The wolverine leans forward on the counter and lifts her own glass at the walls. “This trading fort’s from the silver rush and I’m from ever since then.” She nods to Striker.

  The bobcat creaks open the box he brought.

  Lid’s only open a hair when I catch a rush of strange whispers. My ears go up, though that doesn’t help a bit. Echoes.

  Sunlight gleams inside the gold-lined cases. Voices trail in and out, just on the edge of hearing. Mournful, joyful, spiteful: none of them meaning to talk to me, but talking nonetheless. I struggle to quiet down my thoughts, to grab hold of even one of those voices, but it’s like grasping at the mist. Whole world fades from me, but I’m stretching out with my mind, straining after words I almost hear...

  Striker closes the box.

  I look around. Lost a moment or two, judging by the concern the Sheriff’s giving me. I scoot back from the very edge of the sugar barrel and play like I didn’t just get dragged to distraction by the yammering of the dead. “Boss boxes ya got.”

  Minerva puffs on her cigar. “Pure gold blocks the echoes.”

  “And here I mistook your actions for unalloyed greed.” Blake pats my shoulder, wine glass in his other wing.

  The bobcat chuckles and laps drops of wine from his whiskers. His gaze hints at several parts of me he might like a lick at, which may or may not exist.

  “Where’d ya get all that, anyhow?” I lift my chin at the box on the countertop.

  “Here and there. Some folks dumped their echoes when the current trouble started.” She drums her claws on the lid of the box. “As for the pieces at the counter, the ‘yotes trade me those silver and turquoise pieces. I ship the greater portion back east, since almost none of ‘em echo. Or ever could.”

  I cross my arms over my breasts. “How do you sort the silver from the mirror ore?”

  She scratches her wide gut. “Trade secret.”

  “Ah reckon the real thing sells better.” My ears rise. “Why don’t they make tons of the stuff?”

  “It’s tied to the spirits of the dead. Most tribes have an aversion to the dead.” Her teeth shred more cigar smoke to thin, gray ribbons. “Even among the ‘yotes, you’ve gotta be part of their ‘ghost society’ to deal in echoes.”

  The fruit bat cocks his head and fires off a skeptical glance. “Ghost society?”

  “It is a social club, good sheriff...” Striker purrs through his Rs from where he leans on the counter. His caramel-brown eyes shift to my companion as the cat toys with a whisker. “...where coyotes ask the dead for secrets.”

  A snag of jealousy catches in my chest. I fix a stern look on my muzzle and turn to the wolverine. “Just how’s that work?” My paw traces the handle of my father’s revolver. I’ve only talked to my father through echoes the one time and I’d rather not repeat the steps that led up to that.

  “If you find out, come tell me.” The stocky mustelid leaned back, her smoke drifting to the rafters. “I’ll make you the richest bunny this side of the Mississippi.”

  I ponder, for a moment, just how rich that would be. More than once, Blake’s asked just what I’d do with a pile of money. Maybe put out a reward for the return of my missing firearm. “Ah’m lookin’ for a gun like this one.” Easy and slow, so as to avoid misunderstandings, I draw the gun and hold it by the barrel. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen anything like that?” I tug the silver revolved from its holster, then grab it by the barrel and show it to her.

  Beady wolverine eyes squint at it. Her wide snout grumbles closer. She grits her teeth at the gun for a second. “Hmf! Wish we got more pieces that strong. A lion came in with one of those, sure. Just like it, in fact. Eager to sell it.”

  I bounce upright with hope. “So ya bought it from him?”

  “Of course not.” The badger crosses her thick arms. “The fool clearly stole it. And his asking price was terrible. Said something about trading an entire silver mine for it. Too much trouble.”

  “Too much trouble!” I yank my ears in fury. “Ah could’ve just bought the thing back!” I arch back under the weight of how unfair this all is.

  The lawbat pats me with a wing. “Let’s be honest: you’d have just stolen it.”

  It round on him. “Well, it’s mine! Ah can steal mah own things!”

  The shopkeepers watch me scowl at him, in smug silence.

  Enjoying my discomfort, Blake takes another sip of the wine. His talented little tongue rolls over his pearly whites, collecting every trace of the sip. “This is quite good wine.”

  The trader nods. “If you’re interested, I’ve got a selection of fruit bat liqueurs.”

  A snap of mischief breaks me from my despair. I keep my face stone serious. “Bats do make the finest lickers.”

  The lawbat chokes on his second sip.

  Hiding my smile behind the wine glass, I get down to brass tacks. “Why all this fuss? Can’t be good for business.”

  “We’re a tight little bunch, echo enthusiasts. Wary of newcomers at the best of times. Then I had three of my contacts turn up dead in the last month.” She tapped a little ash toward Striker. “Times being what they are, I’d already taken on additional security.”

  Blake’s ears go up. “Dead?”

  “Only heard about it second-hand, but my regulars have scattered to the winds.” Her gaze drifted out the door to the barred front gate. Just when or who had barred it, I wasn’t sure. “Figure I’d hunker down till this trouble blows by. Pity. Have a fair inventory built up.”

  “I suppose you’d have to be careful.” Blake finishes his wine and settles his wings. “Too much mirror ore seems to just leave everyone shambling around.”

  “Echoes are powerful.” Smoke curls up through her grinning fangs. “Some veins run under ghost towns, having driven every soul screaming mad.”

  Holstering, I scoff at her theatrics. “Speakin’ of ghost towns, how do ya stay in business?” My eyes dance over the wares and windows. “Not exactly bustling around here.”

  “Oh, I manage.” The wolverine hauls anot
her drag on her cigar. “Local elk tribes come down from their high desert plazas to stock up. You’d be surprised how happy they are to get their hooves on modern salt lick and antler ornaments. Want nothing to do with echoes, of course: ghost fear. Good weavers, though.” She hooks a thumb claw at a row of fine cotton sheets, which are about the first thing I’d buy without a worry in this place.

  I eye the door.

  Blake pats my knee. “Now, Six: our train home won’t pass by for another few hours. It’d be rude not to peruse their wares.”

  A ferocious grin rises to our host’s muzzle. “I can see you’re a gentleman of taste, Mister Blake.” She draws a wooden case from under the counter. “Perhaps I could interest you in this.” Clawed hands draw a timepiece on a fob chain from the padded inside of the box. “A skeleton watch, it’s called. They’re the height of fashion in Europe, only now landing on the Atlantic shore.”

  Through the glass face of the thing, I see every moving part. The inside of each gear has been whittled away to let you see clear through to the back of the case. A diverting novelty, to be sure, but who’d need a thing like that?

  “Fascinating.” He extends a polite wing. “May I see?”

  “Of course.” She hands it over with excessive care, hoping to inflate its value further.

  I groan. Now the old lady won’t be satisfied until she’s shown us every gimcrack and knickknack in the place.

  Blake brings the ticking trinket in for a closer look. A tangle of clockwork clicks and twirls in perfect order. Stands to reason the lawbat would like it.

  “Best not be an echo in the thing.” I narrow my gaze on the watch, then at its seller. “All ah need is some departed deer whispering salad recipes whenever ah’m around you.”

  Her paw waves in a gesture that says not to worry, which I find worrying.

  “I’ll take it.” He sweeps a wing forward, all elegance and refinement. “Six, pay the woman.”

  My attention flashes to Blake. “Use yer own money!”

  He straightens his vest and lifts his chin over my objections. “Considering how many of my possessions go missing, I believe I am.”