by Quincy Allen
Cole chuckled. “Well, my mamma—who doesn’t live in Roswell proper, mind you—she says I got a bit of tumbleweed in me.”
Jake nodded his head. He knew exactly what Cole meant. Jake hadn’t been able to settle down since leaving home as a young man. “I guess that makes sense,” he admitted. It would take a powerful wanderlust to make him want to leave a place like Roswell, though. “Still …” he pressed, “The feel of this place is like nothing I’ve ever had run through me.”
“Well, I must confess,” Cole rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed, “there is a bit more to it.” He paused, staring off at a clear blue sky and obviously remembering something.
“Go on.” Jake prompted.
“Before I took up fighting with the Apache—I was nineteen at the time—I found myself in a place a long way from here. I did someone a favor, purely by accident, and she ended up giving me my song. I’m told her people don’t do it for many outsiders, but she did it for me, and my life ain’t been the same since.” He chuckled. “Coming home after that is when I first met Shadowcat. I’d hitched a ride on Pandora.”
“A song?” Jake asked.
“My song,” Cole corrected. He slapped Jake on the shoulder. “You have one, too, amigo. You just don’t know it yet. Maybe you’ll find yours someday. I will say that because of mine, I’ve been on the road doing what I believe I was supposed to. I can’t tell you more on account of that’s how songs work, but there ain’t a doubt in my mind that they’re real.”
It was a lot for Jake to think about. If Cole had needed Pandora to return, then wherever he’d gotten his song wasn’t here. And Jake’s understanding of what “here” meant had taken on a whole new meaning in the past couple of hours.
“I can’t believe all the tinkering that goes on around here, Jake!” Skeeter broke in. She’d been wide-eyed since she first laid eyes on the dragon. With all the clockwork-this and steam-driven-that around every corner, Jake was amazed it had taken her this long to say something.
“Indeed,” Ghiss added. “Even my own enhancements seem no more out of the ordinary here than a lacy parasol on a sunny Atlanta afternoon.”
“Turn left here, Jake,” Cole said, pointing towards a bright green building halfway down the block. The building had white trim, and over the entrance protruded a finely carved sign of a white mare on a green background. “That’s the place. We should be able to stable Lumpy next door. I know the smith there, and he owes me fifty dollars for chasing a straight when he should have folded.”
“Maybe we can get a card game going while we’re waiting for Pandora,” Jake suggested, a wolfish grin on his face. He’d love to play against any man willing to chase a straight.
“Perhaps, unless his missus still has a leash on him,” Cole replied with a laugh. “Last I heard, old Jacob had married himself a right Godly woman who didn’t take to drinkin’ nor gamblin’.”
“Well, there’s something to be said for married life, too,” Jake said with a cautious smile. Cole and Skeeter both looked at him with surprise, convinced Jake Lasater was an eternal eligible bachelor. Neither of them said anything, though.
He pulled back on the reins as they pulled up in front of the Mare.
“I’d heard somebody new was running this place,” Cole said. “I hope he’s got as good a stock of libations as Mac did. I could use a drink.”
Everyone gathered their belongings and headed into the Mare, and Jake coaxed Lumpy along and stopped in front of the smithy. A few minutes of conversation with the blacksmith and a brief mention of Cole’s money had the wagon nestled inside the barn and Lumpy munching sweet feed in a stall nearby.
He paused, staring at the reliquary. He had no doubt Corina was inside, but he didn’t have the slightest idea of what to do about her. “We’ll be in the hotel next door,” he said to the empty air, immediately feeling a bit foolish. He didn’t even know if she could hear him. “If you need a room or something, come find me and I’ll get you squared away.”
There was no reply, and the only sounds were those of a barn creaking in a slight breeze.
With a shrug, he slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and moseyed over to the Mare. Slipping through the front doors—proper doors, not the cheap swinging kind in low-rent saloons across the West—he stepped into a clean and modern looking saloon with a bar and oak tables polished to a high sheen. It was a large room with a couple dozen tables and booths arranged around an open area Jake assumed was for dancing.
Cole stood at the bar speaking with the man who Jake assumed was the proprietor. Skeeter and Ghiss had taken seats at a nearby table.
The bartender leaned around Cole and said, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Then he was focused back on Cole, but that brief glimpse was all Jake needed. A storm of emotions rolled over him. All the feelings—the smells and sounds—of a bloodied army tent hit him. It was a beast running rampant through his guts, all of it saddled with the joy of seeing an old friend.
Jake strode forward, dropped his gear on the table in front of Skeeter and Ghiss, and stepped up to the bar.
“Forsythe.” Jake put a bit of an edge in his voice. He’d been waiting for this moment since his ex-colonel had walked out of the army tent where Jake had left an arm and two legs.
The bartender froze where he stood, and his eyes slid slowly over to where Jake stood. He looked like he was staring at a ghost. Fear filled his eyes. Jake felt everyone staring at him, the tension thick as molasses. He’d told Cole and Skeeter about Jackinaw and what happened after—including Forsythe—but he never told them what was in his heart.
“Jake?” he croaked. He sounded as if he wasn’t sure he was looking at the real thing or some nightmare he hadn’t been able to forget.
Jake pulled off his hat and slid the ocular off his left eye. Placing both on the bar, he locked eyes with his old commanding officer, his left eye squinting with the brightness.
“It’s me, old man.” Jake felt an edge in his voice. It was the beast talking, all those bloody, painful memories tearing at him.
“Jake, I—I—” Forsythe stammered. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he finally managed to whisper.
“Well, I guess we’re both lucky you did.” Jake got a handle on his emotions and eased his tone. “There’s things I would say to you.” Forsythe swallowed hard. “You got someplace where we can talk privately?”
Forsythe nodded slowly. “Back in the kitchen.” He motioned toward a swinging door behind the bar. “Sally has the day off.”
“Lead the way, then,” Jake said.
Forsythe eyed Jake’s guns, obviously fearing for his safety.
Jake unbuckled his gun belt and laid that on the bar, too. Forsythe’s eyes stalled on the mahogany grip of the pistol, recognizing it immediately. His eyes flickered up to Jake’s, and there was hope there.
Jake nodded.
Another pang hit him, and he pulled tight on the reins, soothing his voice out to something resembling friendly. “Don’t worry, old man. Shooting you would be the last thing I’d ever do.” Jake let out a long sigh and finally got a hold of his emotions.
Forsythe smiled a bit nervously and then walked to the door. Jake stepped around the bar and followed the man through.
They were in a wide kitchen, with several pots on the stove and a double-basin sink full of dirty crockery. A mechanical sausage grinder squatted on one of the counters at the back, with most of its metal insides spilled out, obviously in mid-repair.
Forsythe stopped in the middle of the kitchen, and the familiar smell of his famous beef stew hit Jake’s nostrils. For a long while he just stood there, his back to Jake. Finally, he said, “I’m so sorry, Jake,” he said without turning. Jake knew the man was crying.
“Turn around, Forsythe,” Jake said.
He did. Slowly. Tears slid down his cheeks.
Jake stepped up, and grabbed Forsythe in a bear hug. The man froze, not knowing what was coming next. “There ain’t nuthin�
� you need to be sorry about.” Jake said. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“But that day … in the tent … I thought … You wouldn’t even look at me. I thought you blamed me.”
Jake let go of his old friend and stepped back. “Forsythe, that doctor—he spoke up for you, by the way—he’d just clipped off my arm and both my legs. I woke up during one of ’em. You could say I was having a pretty bad day. As far as I’m concerned, though, any debt you owed me for Jackinaw was paid when you resigned your commission … and paid for this.” Jake held up his arm and pulled back the sleeve.” He let out something between a laugh and a sigh. “And you didn’t even owe me that.”
He grabbed Forsythe by the shoulder—the way old comrades do. “Don’t ever forget that, old man. You done right by me, and I’ll die believing it. I mean, think about it.”
“Thank you, Jake.” Forsythe let out a long sigh. “That means a lot to me. It doesn’t change how things played out, and I wish to God I’d done something different. Either way, it won’t make the nightmares go away.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“You, too?”
“Every goddamn night … or near enough to it.”
“The only difference between your sin and mine is the sum of one man. You gave the order. And then I did the same damn thing. I’m as guilty as you are, with the exception of my own life.”
Forsythe nodded in understanding. “I never thought of it that way, but I see what you mean.”
Someone shuffled outside the kitchen door, and another uttered a hushed whisper.
Jake held a finger to his lips and stepped quickly to the door. He grabbed and yanked the handle, revealing Cole and Skeeter bent over slightly, their ears pressed up to where the door used to be.
They both turned embarrassed faces to Jake and then straightened up.
“Sorry, Jake,” Skeeter said. “We were just … uhh … worried about you.”
“Yeah,” Cole added.
All the tension coiled up inside Jake’s belly sprang loose like a busted pocket watch. A giggle-snort leapt past his lips, and a staccato giggle, and then the laughter came like a flood, as if a damn had burst and poured out of him.
Forsythe laughed behind him—probably for the same reason—and soon enough both Cole and Skeeter were laughing right along with them.
It occurred to Jake that, for the first time since the war, he was standing amidst both old friends and new, and the feeling warmed him.
When the laughter eased up enough for him to speak, he said, “Dick Forsythe, I’d like you to meet my riding partner Cole McJunkins.” The two men shook hands. “And this here is Skeeter. She’s sort of my ward. Nothing official, but I took her in. I guess you’d have to say she’s the brains of this here operation.”
Skeeter stepped up and shook Forsythe’s hand like any other cowpoke. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Forsythe,” she said. Her gaze drifted from Forsythe to the gutted sausage grinder behind him.
“That’s a good firm grip you have there, little lady, and you can call me Dick.”
“Thank you, Dick.” She leaned over and gave the grinder a long inspection. “You havin’ a little trouble with that machine back there?”
Forsythe turned and spotted what she was talking about. “Indeed I am.” He chuckled. “That son of a bi—errr … gun ain’t worked in weeks. I just haven’t had time to fix it. Pity, too, since I make the best damn sausage in Roswell.”
“I’ve got some tools in my suitcase, and I’m a whiz with machines. I’d be happy to have a go at it.”
Forsythe raised a dubious eyebrow.
“Dick,” Jake chimed in, “Skeeter is one of the best damn tinkers I’ve ever known. A few more years and I figure she’ll give old Farris a run for his money, and then some.”
Forsythe smiled and then nodded. “Well, with testimony like that, I don’t see how I could refuse.” He placed his hand on Skeeter’s shoulder. “It’s all yours, little lady. And if you get it fixed, dinner’s on me for the lot of you.”
“Deal!” Skeeter blurted and dashed out of the kitchen.
“Come on. Let’s get ourselves checked in. Cole, you and Ghiss go ahead and get cleaned up.”
“Suits me fine.”
“There are baths and running water in every room,” Forsythe said. “I reckon y’all would enjoy a hot bath.”
“You have no idea,” Cole replied. “I ain’t had a proper bath in far too long.”
“I’ll give y’all the suites on the east side for the regular rate, seeing as you’re with Jake and all. If you’re early risers, the sun coming up is something worth seeing.”
“We heard something about that,” Jake said. Turning to Cole, he added, “I’d like to spend some time with Forsythe here, and y’all ain’t invited.” Jake smiled. “Leastways, not yet.”
“I hear ya, Jake. I’m sure you both have some catching up to do.”
Skeeter came back into the kitchen, her suitcase in tow, and headed straight for the meat grinder. Cole and Forsythe went up to the bar, and Jake moved over to a table in the corner furthest from the front door. He settled in and waited. Forsythe finally handed over several keys to Cole, who went upstairs with Ghiss behind him.
Forsythe grabbed a bottle of bourbon and two glasses as he headed for Jake, a pleasant smile on his face.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this, Jake.” Forsythe handed over a room key and sat down, placing the bottle and two short glasses before them.
“You and me both, old man.”
They drank away the afternoon, reminiscing about the men they’d known—the ones they liked and the ones they didn’t. They toasted to those left upon dozens of battlefields, whether they liked the man or not. Finally, they did what all old friends do and caught each other up on what they’d done since the war.
Both men had tales of wandering, with Dick Forsythe meeting Ian MacReady in New Orleans and the friendship they’d forged. Mac brought Forsythe back to Roswell with him, and once Forsythe took the oath of the Accord, he’d found his new home.
Jake’s own tale was a reflection of the promise he’d made in the army tent where he’d lost his limbs—a promise to never take orders and always help those that needed a strong hand or a quick draw. He made a point, however, to avoid the subject of what really brought him to Roswell. He loved Forsythe like a second father, but knowledge of the Lady wasn’t information anyone needed. And he certainly didn’t want to bring his troubles down upon the head of his long lost friend. All he said was that their zeppelin had gone down west of the city and they’d headed to Roswell at Cole’s suggestion.
As afternoon faded into evening, folks drifted in ones and twos into the Mare, so Forsythe had to excuse himself and tend to his business.
Skeeter had gone up to her room hours earlier, having given Forsythe a thumbs-up along the way, and Jake figured it was high time he got himself cleaned up. He made his way to his room, and soon found himself relaxing in a deep tub of hot water.
It wasn’t long before his eyes were drifting closed, and he realized he’d better get a little shut-eye—just a quick nap—before he went down for some food and a little relaxation. If he fell asleep in the tub, they might have to carry his drowned body out of it. He stepped out of the tub, made sure the door to his room was locked, and lay down on the bed.
The thick comforter cradled him, and the warm desert air felt good on his skin. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he thought he felt a slight chill in the air, but the heavy hand of sleep hit him with a right cross, and he was out for the count.
O O O
A knock on the door startled him up out of bed.
“Hang on,” he said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He stood, quickly wrapped a towel around his waist, and stepped up to the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Jake,” Skeeter replied. “You got a minute?”
“Yeah,” he replied, and opened the door. “Come on in.”
She held a thick, g
ray, leather-bound book in her hands that looked worn and very old. The moment she spotted him in nothing but a towel, she rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“What is it with you and being in your all-together?”
Jake blushed but held his ground. “Hey, look, at least I’m wearing a towel.” He pushed the door open wider. “Besides, all my duds are covered in blood. My own blood, I might add.”
She chuckled, shook her head again, and stepped in. “I guess I can’t argue with you there, boss. And I am glad to see you still breathing.” She stepped into the room and moved over to a cherry wood dresser with a mirror.
“You and me both,” he replied, and turned to face her. “Whatcha got there? Been to the library already? I didn’t know Roswell had one.”
“This?” She held up the book. “Naw.… Corina gave me this to study. She says it’s a primer of sorts.”
Jake’s pulse quickened at the mention of the Lady’s name, but he kept on his poker face.
“A primer?” He cocked his head sideways. “Primer for what?”
“Magic,” Skeeter said, and the thrill in her voice was something Jake had heard before … every time she got her hands on a new doo-dad or widget or other piece of machinery she was fixing to take apart and make her own.
“You figuring on becoming a witch?”
“This is sorcery, not witchcraft, although I don’t really understand the difference yet, and I don’t know.” She looked down at the book and ran her hand along the cover. “Corina—she’s pretty neat, by the way—well, she and I talked for a while this evening. I asked her about magic and how it worked.” Skeeter’s face went thoughtful, and she stared out at the dark sky beyond the patio. “What she described sounded a lot like tinkering, except the clockwork—the gears and springs and such—are all in a person’s head. She said that witchcraft was more about transference and transmutation, whereas sorcery was shaping energy through sheer will and making it do exactly what you wanted to. And what makes ’em both go is aether … just like the Thumper over there and a lot of other stuff. But with no batteries or power cells or nothin’.
