Conspiracy of Ravens

by Lila Bowen

  Rhett nodded slowly. “Feller, that don’t sound half-bad.”

  “Good luck with your journey,” Bill said, clapping a huge hand on Rhett’s shoulder that drove his boots an inch into the sand. “May you kill this thing that requires it.”

  “Same to you.”

  The giant shaggy man turned and strode purposefully northward without looking back. Just as he was almost out of sight, he plucked off his top hat, stomped on it, and threw it as Rhett had thrown flat cow patties as a child, just to watch them soar.

  “He’s a weird feller,” Rhett said as Sam came to stand beside him.

  “Ain’t we all,” Sam added. “Ain’t we all.”

  Things were pretty normal for a while. Normal, that is, for two coyotes, a donkey, a Ranger, and some sort of big ol’ bird-thing that refused to act like a girl. As it happened, Earl ended up happy to drive the wagon, claiming he didn’t like riding astride a horse but would direct one from the wagon-box just fine while giving his hooves a rest. They caught up with Winifred by noon and rode along together through the hottest part of the day. Rhett was goddamn miserable, considering the heat and the lack of meat and the ongoing fact of his bleeding, which was at least drawing to a close.

  By nightfall, everyone was glad to settle down, especially considering Dan had managed to snag a scrawny little mule deer with his bow at sunset. The world looked brighter with a full belly. For a day or two, everything was like that. Everything was fine. Everybody behaved. Rhett’s body behaved and quit its bleeding. Hell, even the weather and terrain behaved.

  But then something regrettable happened.

  They came across a road.

  It wasn’t much of a road, as roads went. Rhett hadn’t seen many roads in his lifetime, and most of them just ran down the middle of one shitshow town and then petered out to nothing on the other side. But what he didn’t like about this road in particular was that there were bound to be other travelers on it. He kept expecting Dan or Sam to say something to that effect, like pointing out the obvious: This had to be the road from Waterloo to Lamartine. But no one said a damn thing, which only confirmed his fears.

  Among his friends, among the Rangers, or at the Double TK, he knew who and what he was. Among strangers, the type of strangers who felt the need to parade across the territory for no good reason, he felt downright peculiar, and he suddenly understood completely why Bill the Sasquatch had lit out for his beloved Kanata. Rhett was now exposed and guaranteed to run into curious people who were bound to be rude. And if there was one thing Rhett hated, it was rude people who didn’t quite deserve to die.

  It was easy enough to travel, at least. The road was just a strip of dirt tromped down by hooves and boots, the hay-dry grass on either side trying unsuccessfully to overrun it again. Signs of life popped up here and there: a tin can, a thrown horseshoe, a chunk of broken harness or rope. Rhett hated it. A pile of manure was natural and useful, but just tossing out broken things to impede the way of others? Rude. Just plain rude.

  Rhett was hollering at people in his head when he first noticed a cloud of dust heading toward them from the horizon. He was riding Puddin’, out in front of his posse like the Ranger Scout he officially was. At first, he thought about transforming into a bird and flying over to see what was headed their way, but then he remembered that…roads were for people. Not outlaws. Not Lobos. Not monsters hell-bent on eating babies. Just regular folks too scared and foolish to make it alive across the prairie on their own. Being scared of folks on the road was about the same as being scared of cattle. They were big and dumb, but you had to remember who was the dangerous one.

  “Let’s make camp,” Dan said, trotting up on his chestnut.

  Rhett nodded. “Might as well. Getting crowded out here, all of a sudden.”

  “That it is.”

  They pulled off in a place where folks had been pulling off for a while. Dirt ruts from past wagons led to a pretty clearing by a stream surrounded by weeping willows. A fire pit was burned black, ringed by logs and rocks about the right size for sitting. Rhett couldn’t deny that it was mighty pleasant to have half the work already done. Of course, his relief disappeared as soon as he realized how far he’d have to go to scavenge firewood without chopping down a waist-thick willow with his Bowie knife. Still, it was a pretty walk, following the creek through copses and plucking up whatever twigs and dead branches he could find. At least he knew that by the time he got back, someone else would’ve hacked into the mule deer and gotten it ready to roast.

  When he returned to dump a load of kindling in the pit, he was taken aback to hear unfamiliar voices raised in laughter, a fire already crackling. A fierce jealousy rose up in his throat. Those were his people, and who were these new folks, just joining the camp as if they had a right?

  Up close, he saw a big wagon parked across the clearing from Prospera’s wagon—or Winifred’s wagon, now, whether the girl wanted it or not. Two matched brown draft horses cropped grass amicably with Hercules, while another mule traded joyful scratches with Blue. When Rhett approached the fire pit, chin held high and mouth set in a grim line, he found Winifred in conversation with a white woman and two little girls with long blond braids trailing down their backs over faded sprigged calico. Winifred’s stump was carefully covered.

  “This is Mr. Rhett Walker. Rhett, these are the Muellers,” Winifred said carefully in her most white-sugar voice. “They’re on their way to Waterloo to start a farm. This is Betsy, and her girls are Minnie and Molly.”

  “Howdy do, Mr. Walker,” the woman said softly.

  “Howdy do, sir,” the girls echoed at her nod.

  When Rhett didn’t immediately say anything, Winifred’s eyebrows went down sharply, her eyes demanding he cobble together some sort of politeness.

  He pitched his voice deep. “Uh, howdy do, ma’am. Ladies.” He tipped his hat, settled it lower over his eye, and hurried past. One of the little girls had gasped, probably at his single eye, and he didn’t want to be gawked at any longer.

  Over by the wagons, Dan had the mule deer strung up and was slicing off bits of it as a man in faded farmer’s garb smoked a pipe and yapped in a growly voice.

  “Name your price, I said. Don’t you like money, boy?”

  “He’s not for sale,” Dan said, carefully focusing on his work.

  “Everything’s for sale. Farm needs a good donkey. What do you need it for, anyway? It’s not even being used to pack out. Wasted, that is.”

  Rhett took an instant dislike to the stranger for several reasons and was sorely aggrieved to recognize that he wasn’t any sort of monster that needed immediate killing.

  “He’s not an it, and he’s not for sale,” Rhett interrupted, his hand on his gun.

  The man turned, looked Rhett up and down with an ugly sneer, and snorted foul smoke out his nose. “Where’d that Ranger go? Maybe he has some sense in his head.”

  Shaking his head in disgust, he stomped away toward where Sam was carrying in water from the stream. Earl did a little kick and brayed, and Dan savagely cut off a chunk of meat as if he wished he were cutting on Mr. Mueller.

  “Tomorrow, we get off this fool road,” Rhett muttered. “I’d rather take supper with a harpy.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Dan said. Then he caught himself and laughed, sharp and dark. “Well, it is. I guess I’m used to it. Point is, Mrs. Mueller has a pot and can cook up the grub with some flavoring and greens, and maybe we can do some trading. We’re stuck with them tonight, in any case. And Winifred’s smiling, so there’s that.”

  Rhett followed his line of sight to find Winifred in good spirits as she played a game with the little girls and their two ragged dollies. The girls laughed, and it was indeed a sweet sound. Mrs. Mueller kept watch over a cauldron set in the fire, her face drawn down and her mouth a thin line. Well, and who would look happy, when they were married to Mr. Mueller?

  “He can’t have Earl, and he can’t have any of the horses. Look at his animals. The mule’s ski
nny, and the horses’ hooves are all grown out. He doesn’t even brush their manes.” Rhett spit in the dirt, hands on his skinny hips. “I got no respect for a man who doesn’t care for his beasts.” Earl stamped a foot, and Rhett added, “You’d best turn back into someone who can talk back or he’ll try to steal you in the night.” Earl nipped at his hand, but not with an eye to bite off a finger.

  Dinner was a tasty but stiff affair, as Sam was the only person Mr. Mueller saw fit to talk to in between sips from a dirty glass flask. Prospera’s wagon had included a variety of mismatched and dented-up tin plates and cups, so the meal was uncomfortably civilized after weeks of eating nearly raw meat off sticks. Betsy was mostly silent, answering questions in a quiet voice when asked and instructing the girls on proper behavior. Winifred did her best to carry on a conversation, but any time Betsy spoke too much or too loudly, Mr. Mueller gave her a hard-eyed look, and she pursed her lips and focused on her food.

  “Your boy told me you was headed to Lamartine,” Mr. Mueller said to Sam, who looked more annoyed and aggrieved than Rhett had ever seen him.

  “If you mean my friend Dan, then you heard correctly.” Sam’s voice was sharp, and he was sitting as stiff as a preacher, his sweet eyes gone cold.

  “We just came from there.”

  “I figured.”

  A few moments passed in silence. Mr. Mueller finished his plate of food and shoved it at Betsy with a grunt. She hurriedly refilled it and handed it back.

  Looking down at it, he shoved it back at her, harder, slopping sauce onto her shawl. “Well, fill it good. Stingy slattern.”

  The air around the fire practically crackled with anger. Dan, Sam, Winifred, and Rhett were all tense and silent, their food forgotten.

  “You need a wife?” Mr. Mueller made to elbow Sam in the ribs.

  Sam leaned away, his face a grim mask as he changed topics. “The food is mighty fine, Mrs. Mueller. We’re all much obliged. We’ve been so used to trail food that it’s right nice to eat something fully cooked with some salt to it.”

  Mr. Mueller grunted. “Too much salt. Always too much salt. I joke that she’s trying to kill me with salt.”

  “Didn’t know seasoning was a weapon,” Rhett muttered, and Mr. Mueller’s head jerked up.

  “Don’t you mutter at me, boy. You mind your betters.”

  All slow-like, Rhett set down his plate and dabbed at his mouth with a kerchief. “Mind my betters?” he said. “Well, if I should see one, I’ll remember that advice.”

  Quicker than Rhett expected, Mueller had a fist tangled in his shirt and was dragging him to standing. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

  Rhett jerked away and straightened his shirt. “Pretty sure I didn’t mutter that time.”

  Mueller looked down to Sam. “You better tell your boys to show me some respect or I’ll teach them to behave.”

  Sam stood, towering over the stockier man. “You seem to think they work for me, but I assure you they are free men. Heavily armed ones, too. And Rangers to boot.”

  “Like hell,” Mueller spat.

  Rhett rubbed a thumb over his badge. “Shiny, ain’t it?”

  Dan had pulled his own badge from wherever he kept it and pinned it on his collar slowly, his eyes locked on Mueller. “Captain Walker wouldn’t take to you threatening Durango Rangers, sir.”

  Mueller’s grin went twisted and cruel. “Well, this here ain’t Captain Walker’s territory. This is Captain Haskell’s land. And he ain’t going to like you boys too much, from what I hear. Them Haskell’s Rascals ain’t known for their tolerance.”

  “I reckon even an intolerant man won’t abide you insulting the Rangers,” Dan said. Rhett was coming to realize that so long as Dan was smirking, things were fine. As soon as Dan got like this, his face impassive and his voice even, things were headed south.

  Betsy put a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. “Gregory, please. The children are tired.”

  Without looking at her, he jerked his arm away and shoved her to the ground. The most telling detail Rhett noticed as time seemed to slow down was that the little girls didn’t even act surprised. They clutched at each other and backed away into the shadows with wide, wary eyes. Once they were under their wagon, Rhett turned back to face Mueller, his hands in fists.

  Rhett was the first to roll up his sleeves, then Sam and Dan. Betsy’s mouth quivered as she pulled herself back to sitting and tried to settle her shawl and hair.

  “Please,” she begged. “The road makes us weary. Let’s all just go to bed.”

  Her husband ignored her and stood, his face lit like a demon from the fire below. “They’d like that, I bet,” he said, voice low and almost cloying. “Think you boys can talk back to me? Where I come from, there are consequences for insolence.” He glared at each of the men in turn, his eyes settling on Rhett as he rolled up his own sleeves.

  With a snort of amused murderousness, Rhett flexed his hands. “I don’t know what insolence is, but I bet it’s not half as offensive as your rudeness. If you like hitting women, I reckon I’d like to kick your ass.”

  And then the fight began.

  Chapter

  13

  Mueller’s lip curled, and he threw a haymaker that Rhett had no trouble ducking. Before Rhett could hit Mueller back, Sam and Dan had him by the arms to haul him away.

  “Rhett, stop and think,” Dan muttered. “What do you hope to gain?”

  “Beat the shit out of an ass who deserves it?” Rhett struggled against them, realizing for perhaps the first time that he wasn’t as strong as he thought he was.

  “You want his girls to see that?” Sam asked. With one hand, he turned Rhett’s chin, pointing his eye at the wagon from under which four bright, wet eyes were watching as Mueller breathed through his nose like a bull.

  “Well, I—”

  Mueller landed a punch in Rhett’s belly, and all the air whooshed out. The pain was nothing compared to the rage, and soon Sam and Dan were struggling to hold him back for real.

  “Let me do this, Sam,” Rhett shouted. “You know he deserves it!”

  Sam pulled Rhett close to speak directly into his ear. “I know that if we let you go, either he kills you or you kill him. I can’t live with the first, and his family can’t live with the second, so I’ll keep holding you back even if it means I have to sit on you all goddamn night.”

  Much to his surprise, the fight drained on out of Rhett at that, his body relaxing. Sam and Dan still held on tight, most likely believing it was an act, as that was exactly the sort of dirty fighting Rhett would’ve preferred to indulge in.

  Mueller stepped forward to go for another coward’s shot, and Winifred muttered, “Don’t,” from her place by the campfire. She was still sitting, but she had her leather sling and stone whirling in the air, her beautiful eyes narrowed with hate and threat.

  In the shadows, a pistol cocked. “Yeah, you don’t want to be doin’ that,” Earl said.

  Holding his hands up in defeat, Mueller backed away until he was out of striking range.

  “You okay?” Sam asked.

  Rhett nodded, and they let him go. He readjusted his shirt and resettled his hat as if such civilized motions could clear the air.

  “Oh, I’m fine. So long as I’m not expected to share my fire with that feller again.”

  “Oh, you won’t,” Mueller said. “Uppity mongrels.” He kicked over the cauldron, spilling the rest of the food into the fire. “Now you can’t eat my scraps.” With that, he spat on Rhett’s boot and strolled to his wagon with his head held back, tippling from his flask.

  Betsy was crying silently, and Rhett understood now that the purple smudges under her eyes weren’t from lack of sleep.

  “I’m sorry,” she said before scurrying behind her husband, back toward the wagon.

  The posse pretended not to watch as Betsy laid out pallets for the girls on the ground and climbed into the wagon with her husband. Once the wagon started rocking rhythmically to the t
une of animalistic grunts and soft sobs, Rhett stood and walked hurriedly away to the horses. Normally, he’d bring over his saddle and blanket and curl up by the fire. This time, he set up his bedroll by the stream, on the other side of the horses. Cold and the familiar reek of manure were better than the red-hot fury he’d feel if he tried to sleep near that bastard Mueller. At least he had his buffalo robe to curl up in, not to mention the heat of his anger.

  He twitched when he heard footsteps, but it was only Sam, saddle and blanket in hand.

  “Dan’s staying by the fire so he can keep an eye on Winifred in the wagon. He doesn’t trust that Mueller feller, and neither do I.”

  “Me, neither.”

  Sam set out his things and settled down in his usual place. The only difference was that there was no fire and no one else, just them and the horses and the cool night wind ruffling the burbling water. The stars were bright, twinkling through the weeping willow as whip-poor-wills gave their mournful calls.

  “What good are Rangers if we can’t stop folks from doing wrong?” Rhett finally asked, although whether he was asking the moon or Samuel Hennessy, he didn’t rightly know.

  “We can stop plenty of wrongs,” Sam answered, all gentle. “We’re on our way to do just that. But some things…well, they got no good answer. You just got to measure the balance and do the best you can. If we had let you kill that feller, who rightly deserved it, either his family would be alone on the prairie with no man to keep them safe or we’d have to take them on, and then we couldn’t hunt Trevisan. So we’ve got to let it go, even if every one of us’ll be chewing over it all night like a piece of gristle.”

  “That poor woman,” Rhett fumed. “Those poor little girls.”

  Hours or possibly years went by before Sam spoke again, just as quiet as the doves cooing somewhere along the stream. “Was it like that for you, before? Were you somebody’s…? Did some man…?”