by Tempe O'Kun
The telegram flutters in my wing fingers as the fennec telegraph agent trudges back through the wind. I close the door, sealing the dust currents outside, then pad back to my room.
In the scant moments I spent seeing to the knock at my door, Six has rolled and lit a cigarette, which she smokes in my bed, naked and lovely. The curls of smoke trace upward, white and subtle as the curves of her body.
I wave the slip of paper. “From the sheriff in Scoria Grove.”
“Inquirin’ on your taste in dresses this season?” She tosses me a coy glance, beautiful and infuriating.
“Some roughs got past him. Could be trouble, Six.” I try not to lose myself in the subtle slopes of her body. “They’re headed our way.”
“Bosh. Ah’m trouble.” Snatching up her gunbelt, she grins my way around a smoldering cigarette. “And ah’m headed theirs.”
I sigh. This woman might well be the death of me, but, watching her dress beside my bed, I can’t bring myself to complain.
With the ponies saddled and Six as decent as she gets, we look to the horizon. Dust devils kick up, then wither to nothing in the hot afternoon sun. Together, we mount up. My pony is only now getting used to my hopping aboard with a flap of my wings.
Harding hands me a shotgun. “First round is birdshot. Gets more serious from there.”
“Thank you, deputy.” With care, I slip it into its scabbard on the saddle, slung low horizontal enough my feet can reach it from riding or standing. “Once we warn the outlying farms, we’ll loop back to town.”
The bloodhound shrugged the rifle slung over his shoulder. “I’ll be on the saloon roof. Ought to smell anybody coming. Wish we had a clue as to species.”
I hand him the telegram. “As do I.”
Six stirs her bay pony. “We gonna sit around jawin’ all day?”
I tip my hat to the deputy and click my tongue. My mount trots onward, toward the edge of town.
The hare canters up beside me with a glance down at the longarm. “Reckon I should get a scattergun? One of those little hogleg numbers? What’d they call ‘em?” She snaps her fingers, a noise as soft as the fur on her paws. “Lámpara? Se para? Se embarra?”
“If you’re referring to some manner of obscene lamp, perhaps. If we are talking about the gun made famous by Italian wolves, the word is ‘lupara’.” I roll my eyes and Rs. “And you require neither.”
She smiles. “Just thinkin’ of yer safety, lawbat.”
“So am I.”
“Just stick closer, sugarwings.” Her ears droop over the brim of her hat. “That’ll keep you outta the line of fire, among other benefits.”
I stiffen in my saddle and snap my gaze forward, trying not to let her see me blush. It’s going to be a long night.
Evening light hangs long shadows from every rock on the landscape. We alert several homesteads, working our way up Skull Creek, toward the mountains. Old Camp Mountain, the nearest, can be identified by the massive crack blasted in it. Six grins at it.
With miles and hours wearing on, I dig out a strip of fruit leather to nibble on. I’m halfway into the wax paper, when I notice rare silence from my hare companion. I glance over.
Ears up, the bunny watches something come around the bend of a hill as we plod on. One paw on a silver revolver, the other on a blue steel one, she scowls from behind her kerchief.
Not many things in life manage to quiet Six, so I look the same direction.
A two-pony wagon stands abandoned. Before it, a feline body lies in the dust. Rust-hued dust clings to the wet hole on its coat. Around its chest wraps a red leather bandoleer.
I dismount, finding the cat is cold dead. My eyes meet Six’s. “In-fighting?”
One paw traces her revolver. “Would reckon so.” Those ears rise further, aglow in the sunset.
My wing thumbs tighten on the reins. “What?”
Six stiffens, spreading the sides of her duster like wings. “We are a mite surrounded.”
I pause, then hear it too—at least three men, positioned around us. I click a few times, to confirm their locations, then clear my throat of dust. “Gentlemen! The name’s Sheriff Jordan Blake.” I flash my badge to the scrub-covered hillsides. “I have reason to believe you men are in possession of stolen property—”
Shots crack, whistling past my ears.
Our ponies scream.
Beside me, Six bounces up from her stirrups, then off of her saddle. An instant later, I watch in awe as the bunny spins high above me. Pistols flip to her paws, then flash half a dozen shots.
Not eager to get shot again, I drop to the earth.
The ponies panic and thunder off. I roll out of their way. The shotgun bounces from its scabbard and tumbles to the ground, a couple yards off.
Her boots land beside me, only to skitter sideways as bullets bite the dirt around us. She spins to snap off three more shots with her silver gun, the steel one forgotten, then freezes, ears attentive, a wisp of smoke curling from the weapon.
Silence looms as everyone hangs fire. All around, I hear moaning from the brush. Three forms writhe in the bushes.
The bunny holsters the empty revolver and helps me up. “Ya ask after ya shoot ‘em.”
Brushing the grit from my fur, I try to shake the ringing from my ears. “New gun working out?”
“Like dancin’ with one foot asleep.” She turns the weapon over in her paws, contemplative. “But ah muddle on somehow.” After clearing her throat, she addresses the shrubs. “Gentlemen! Ah have reason to believe yer now in possession of a number of my bullets. If ya feel this isn’t adequate compensation for yer abidance, do speak up.”
A wordless roar rips over the desert.
A grizzly’s massive frame rises from the hillside. Tattered clothing hangs off his frame. Claws shine bloody in the dying sunlight. He hunches, then roars forward. Hind paws churn soil, ripping gouts of sand free. For all his bulk, he tears through the dust toward us.
Six’s ears drop. “Aw blazes.” Pistol flashing level, she backpedals, shooting. Her first shot craters in hard earth, while the next two wing the brute.
The towering ursine doesn’t even slow, rage lit in his eyes. Those claws slice gleaming arcs, each an inch from her retreating form.
I draw and unload my revolver into his legs. Half a dozen shots, three hit.
The bear staggers, then spins on me with a roar, a quarter ton of undiluted fury.
A brown overcoat falls over his head.
The bunny bounds up his back and bashes both gun handles on his skull. The crack of metal on bone rolls like thunder over the desert. A roar of pain and fury follows.
Scrambling back, I bump into cold steel. The shotgun.
Massive claws rend the coat to tatters. The towering ursine rounds on her. With a wild swing, he backhands her guns, knocking them away. Swipes of those gleaming claws catch her shadow as she bounces back. Snarls and profanity lash out, but she stays a bounce ahead.
I snatch the shotgun with my wing, toss it to my feet, work the lever action, and level it on the bear. A slow exhale as I wait for my thief to spring clear, then I unleash a volley into the bear. The birdshot bounces off his hide, so I pump the lever and fire again, this time followed by the sickening patter of buckshot into flesh.
Hit in the shoulder, the ursine staggers to one side, but roars after the hare.
Taking advantage of my slowing the great brute, Six snatches the bowie knife from her belt, grips it in both paws, and braces her boots in the dirt—wide open to a killing blow.
A crushing swipe arches down on her, only to be impaled on the foot-long blade. Buried to the cross guard through his palm, it erupts from the back of his hand like a monolith of steel and blood. The bear bellows at his wound in confusion and horror.
Six swings a savage kick t
o his temple, which hits like the thump of a ripe mellon.
The brute drops. Dust rolls out from the impact.
Still on my back, I snap another round into the shotgun and train it on his writhing form. “Six?”
The hare snags her silver pistol from the dust, reloads with cold ease, and draws a bead on the groaning heap of fur. Past her boots, the shreds of her jacket tremble on the indifferent breeze. Her bare arms catch the last glints of sunlight as she flexes a sore paw. “I liked that coat.”
A solid click proclaims the security of the cell door. Inside, the bandits sprawl on the floor, bandaged and drugged. The sharp cloy of ether hangs thick in the air. Here and there, one of their number offers a hazy groan.
“I managed to piece them back together.” Doc Richards washes his paws in a basin, then casts a serious glance to Six. “You did a real number on that bear.”
“He’s lucky it wasn’t a bigger number.” Boots kicked up on my desk, the bunny cleans her bowie knife with a smug gleam. Her wrist is wrapped: a minor sprain. “Fella seemed a mite keen on dividing me.”
“That bear has to be seven feet tall.” With an eye in the jail, Charlotte packs the remaining medical paraphernalia. “Is the cell going to hold him?”
Harding nods, ears bobbing. “Those bars run into the foundation and close over the top.”
Strolling from my desk, the hare bends to adjust her boots and just happens to kneel beside the possessions we removed from the bandits. Those deft paws poke through the belongings.
I strive to ignore her. Often, she steals things only to bedevil me. “I don’t like putting them all in one cell, but it’s only until the marshals arrive.”
The vixen fluffs her bottlebrush tail. “They won’t be in a state to cause much trouble, even when the ether wears off.”
“Call us over before you give them anything, even if it’s just laudanum.” Doc waves a black paw at the prisoners. “I’ve been reading some papers on drug combination—”
“Glad sakes!” Six laughs a victory cry. “Now that raises an ear or two…” Her muzzle buries further in a small brown diary, blue eyes wide.
A sigh drags itself from my bosom. “Six, dare I ask what you are doing?”
Fingertips held to her chest, she fawns up at me. “Oh, beg pardon, Sheriff Jordan Blake.” Still kneeling, she mocks a bow. “Ah reckoned at least one of us could be useful and find somethin’.”
I close my eyes. “Just read what you found.”
“Ahem: ‘April 6th. Hayes didn’t show. Tempers on edge. Could sell the thing, but don’t want to cross the lion. Best just to keep it.’” She beams up at me. “Glad sakes, seems ah have a nose for investigatin’ after all.” She wiggles it my way.
“Anything else?”
She flicks through few newer entries, then reaches blank leaves. “Nothing about Hayes.” She moves to pocket it.
“Pity.” I pluck the book from her paws. “That’s evidence.”
“Hey now!” She rises to make half-hearted attempts to retrieve it from me. “Ah filched that fair and square.”
I thumb through the entries, sparing her only a miffed glance. “You haven’t a square bone in your body.”
Charlotte shrugs to her husband. “Well, that’s medically true.”
Six taps a finger on my badge. “How in blue blazes am ah supposed to hunt down that lion if ya interfere?”
“You said yourself it contains no other mention of him.” I slip the journal into my waistcoat, where she is unlikely to reach with the foxes present. “Perhaps once our guests convalesce, they can enlighten us further.”
She scowls. “That ruffled lout could be back in the Old States by now. Or imposing his sweet self on the jungles of Africa, for all we know.”
My wings cross. “And the law can’t lay a paw on him unless we’re in possession of evidence.”
“Ah’m possessed of a powerful need to wring Hayes like a dish towel…” Her ears droop to a sulk, at least until she chances upon the outlaws’ gunbelts.
I turn to the vulpines. “Still no news on Hayes, Doc?”
“Afraid not.” The todd scratched his white, whiskered muzzle. “Though I can’t say that’s a bad thing, strictly.”
A quiet moment passes. I resign myself to having a jail full of unhappy criminals for the next few days. My office is already rather small, but I wonder if it could stand a partition between the bars and my desk. Alas, that would mean being unable to see the occupants, so I abandon the notion.
Six, meanwhile, finishes restocking her gunbelt from the pile of confiscated bandoleers, then ambles out the door. The foxes don’t bat an ear, too focused on their patients.
I’ve known her long enough to not trust her slipping out unannounced. Excusing myself, I follow.
Outside, under the light of a lantern, she’s poking through the bandit’s wagon with a ne’er-do-well grin.
I reassure the ponies tied up outside with a brush of my wing, then sigh at her. “Six, kindly refrain from further pilfering.”
She turns, her subtle curves no longer hidden under a duster. “Now Blake, nothin’ under the sun didn’t once belong to somebody else.”
“It’s evidence.” Seeing no point in trying to stop her, I walk up to at least witness the tampering. “It belongs to you even less than most things.”
“What have we here?” She hefts a shining metal box, as big as a phonograph player. Fanciful etchings tumbled around its perimeter. “Ya know what’s so fine folk’d stick it in a gold box?”
I tuck my thumbs into my belt. “I haven’t the faintest.”
“Neither do ah.” She flashes me mischief’s own smile. “Let’s find out.”
Six lifts the lid, freezes a moment, and collapses like a sack of potatoes.
My wings sweep around her, breaking her fall. The box bounces off the back of the wagon, spilling open, and ejecting a metal sphere the size of a small melon. Moonlight and lamplight dance over its etched surface as it plummets. In a split second, I snatch it with my foot before it can hit the ground. It’s heavier than I thought —as is Six— but I manage to hop my way back into the City Office with some measure of dignity.
Dragging in yet another unconscious gunfighter stirs an understandable vulpine hubbub.
The medical foxes dive to dote over Six. Charlotte checks for a pulse, then looks in her eyes. “What on Earth—?”
“Mirror ore.” I heft the orb onto my desk with a thump.
Doctor and deputy turn to it with shock and shocked recognition.
Doc Richards stands to appraise it. “I’ve never seen a piece that size.”
“I have. In coyote villages.” Harding strokes his jowls. “They use them to speak to the dead.”
I get my first real look at the sphere. It’s been hammered or carved with incredible precision, layer upon layer of detail drawing the eye around and in, forever in. I blink. My gaze flicks to my thief, limp on the floor. Unable to abide seeing her helpless, I duck outside, grab the gold box, and place on my desk. With care, I seat the orb inside.
Richards stands to study the orb with a scholar’s dispassion. One dark paw strokes his chin, then opens toward me. “You think our bandits were affected by this ore nodule?”
Under my wings, the box closes with a velvet whisper.
Six jolts up from Charlotte’s arms and hollers: “If you ‘yotes’d hang yer yammerin’ for one blue-blazin’ second—!” She glances around, accusation and embarrassment in her stormy sapphire eyes.
The foxes and I do her the kindness of ignoring her.
Ears flat, the vixen glances at her husband, then over the unconscious criminals. “More than likely, I’d say.”
Harding rides ahead, kicking up dust with his scruffy nag. Overhead, the sun burns. The only sign of
civilization is the occasional cairn on a rise. At least, I think they’re cairns. Could be natural rock heaps. Our bloodhound guide seems to know where he’s going, though.
Under the shade of her hat, Six glances to me. “Reckon White Rock’ll survive without us?”
I shrug. “We did deputize Doc before we left.”
She rolls those fiery blue eyes. “Best we return ‘fore that goes to his head.”
“I... I’m glad you’re alright.” Swallowing back a break in my voice, I ride on. “I worry when you get reckless like you did with that bear.”
“Worry I might not, lawbat.” With a flourish, she draws in a blur of silver, spinning a revolver on one finger and not even slowing to shove it back in the holster.
I straighten the reins in my wing fingers. “You ought to practice with that new gun.”
Her tone dulls. “Ah ought to get my other one back.”
Not for the first time, I admire her subtle curves from the corner of my eye. “You always seem to wear the silver one on your right side.”
“Do ah?” She looks between her guns. “Hadn’t drawn mah notice.”
I lift an ear. “Are you left-handed?”
“Might be.” With earnest curiosity, she spins the shiny revolver from one paw to the other. After a few whirls to and fro, she shrugs. “Tough to say. Reckon ah knew, once.” She holsters.
I look for that thin, familiar smile on her, but find her muzzle plain with sober consideration. I wonder sometimes what goes on in her head. Never put much stock in echoes —falling into that hazy limbo between theory and wishful thinking— but the evidence does pile up. My thief would not have survived her own recklessness this long without some kind of unseen aid. Desert air buffets my wings as we scale the mesa path, tempting me to lift off from the saddle and fly.
On the pony she stole from me last year, Six smiles my way. Sunlight glows through her ears as if through the finest sheet of marble. “Don’t go blowin’ away now, lawbat.”
I haul my hat down over my brow, fighting the wind. “I’d manage quite well on the wing, thank you.”
