These realizations brought up another vital question. “Ranger, what is the Fang? A weapon of some sort?”
“It’s top secret government property.”
Nat asked, “Then what’s it doing in a hidden Osage camp?”
Doyle sighed heavily. “I understand you want answers. But when it comes to matters of the Law, I cannot discuss top secret information.”
“But we are the Law,” Cutter mumbled. “We got deputized.”
Doyle chuckled, as if he didn’t quite believe Cutter’s assertion.
For the next few miles, the company fell into an uncomfortable silence—except for the Ranger, who set to humming a peculiar tune, a refrain of notes as dreary as the weather. It was the same lonely tune that Doyle had purred after they first met him.
The dull melody grew so bothersome, Keech tried to shift his ears to more comforting noises: the steadfast wheeze of the wind, the tromping of hooves on frozen ground. He noticed, with no small curiosity, that Saint Peter’s steps were utterly silent, neither crunching on the ice nor leaving a single hoofprint in the snow. Doyle’s story about the horse being a Kelpie spirit seemed ridiculous, but Keech had to believe his own ears and eyes.
Before long, the group crested another broad hill, and rolling white prairie unfolded before them. The sight filled Keech with both melancholy and wonder. The abundant range bristled with clusters of snow-covered foxtail and reclusive trees, each one shorn bald and helpless by the constant wind. Occasional ridges punctuated the lowland, a series of cliff-like escarpments that gave Keech a feeling of constant motion, as though they were riding over the surface of a vast ocean.
A startling crack of thunder made him glance farther west.
“Looks like another storm,” said Quinn.
Saint Peter suddenly came to a stop. Doyle held up his fist, a signal for the gang to rein back, and the young riders halted their ponies. Keech watched as the Ranger jiggled his head, like someone trying to jar himself from a bitter daydream.
Concern twisted Quinn’s face. “Ranger?”
“No one move,” Doyle barked. “Listen.”
The man resumed his monotonous tune, this time placing a string of words on the melody. They sounded empty of meaning, like the irritating gibberish that Little Eugena and Patrick used to mumble to each other while playing. The noise slipped under Keech’s skin and crawled over his nerves. He inspected the quiet prairie, hoping to see what concerned the Ranger, but save for the occasional set of rabbit prints, he saw nothing of note. He lifted his eyes to search the clouds.
Farther west, a narrow smear on the sky hovered like a dismal bookmark above the land, as if a powerful storm had gathered inside a single, mighty cloud. Keech remembered the Ranger’s warning that they would see darkness and wondered if the terrible smear was what he had meant.
A too-familiar Ack! yanked Keech from his thoughts.
Doyle didn’t stop chanting. Instead, his bothersome song grew louder. The frightful call came again, more urgent this time: Ack! Ack!
A quick movement near Keech’s right flank made him spin. Not far away, a large black shape had perched on a thick sycamore limb. Keech’s breath hitched. He expected the shard to suddenly ignite cold under his shirt, but it did nothing. Next to him, Duck grabbed at her own amulet, her face showing the same confusion Keech was feeling.
The monstrous crow on the sycamore had a rounded torso, bulging and lumpish, and giant wings. The talons that held the creature on the bough resembled the curved spikes of a deer’s antlers, and the crow’s long beak could have passed for a cutting froe. A pair of bloodred eyes scanned the prairie.
The creature looked straight at the young riders, but it was confused, as though a rock had just smacked it across the head.
Abruptly, Doyle’s song ceased, and he whistled loudly at the crow, as if mocking it.
“Quiet, Ranger!” Duck hissed.
“Don’t fret. I’ve made sure this one sees and hears nothing of us.”
The Ranger spun his mount and strolled up to the sycamore tree, stopping a few feet from the crow. “Think of the crows as extensions of a main body, like the teeth of a crocodile. When the teeth strike, they can kill. But if the crocodile is blind, the teeth can’t find their prey.”
Keech considered for a moment. “Your humming. It’s made us invisible somehow.”
The Ranger smiled. “Put a blindfold on the croc, and he can’t strike very well, can he?”
“I wish you would teach us to hum like that,” Keech said.
“It’s not the humming, son. It’s the focus the tune provides.” Doyle grunted. “Anyway, children should learn numbers and history, not enchantment.”
“We’re on a dangerous trail, not at home reading lessons,” said Duck.
“It sure would come in handy,” Keech said.
The Ranger thought for a moment, then sighed. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to share a few concepts.” He cleared his throat. “Energies exist inside everything you can see and smell, taste and touch. Some energies are shallow, like the bubbles that rise to the surface of a pond. They’re the easiest to tap. Others lie deeper and are more challenging to find. The first step to connecting with these buried energies is to clear your mind of distractions.”
“How?” Keech asked.
“Different methods work for different folks. I begin by listening to the songs of the scurryin’ rodents, the whisper of the breeze, the crack of ice as the sun shines on the snow. When I discover the tune of the world, my focus sparks within. That’s the secret: focus.”
“‘The tune of the world.’” Keech took a moment to listen to the prairie.
“Our method of focusing will be special to each of us, won’t it?” Quinn asked.
“Indeed, Mr. Revels. Each person must find his own way to connect.” The Ranger closed his eyes and drew in a steady breath. “Now, let’s learn a more important lesson.”
“Which is?” said Duck.
The Ranger pointed his gloved finger at the crow. “Breaking the crocodile’s teeth.”
The massive bird squawked but remained unaware of the group.
“Bang,” Doyle said.
The crow exploded into a grisly ball of black feathers and muck. The remains of the monster drifted to the ground.
Keech gawked in surprise, unable to speak.
Gravely, Doyle looked at the young riders. “Your first lesson is complete. Now let’s get back to the trail.” Snapping Saint Peter’s reins, the Ranger forged on.
CHAPTER 15
THE TOWN OF PERPETUAL NIGHT
For a time, Keech lost himself in the image of the rupturing crow till the prairie folded back up into another forest and the land dipped to a shallow gully. Following Doyle, the young riders entered the gulch and soon emerged into a network of cottonwood trees, their heavy crowns iced over and dusted with snow.
Doyle said, “It’s time we find a place to hide the horses. Wisdom is only two miles away, through these woods. We’ll want to travel the last bit on foot.”
Keech felt his nerves pulse with dread—but he also felt excited to finally reach Wisdom. As Quinn steered them onward, he braced himself for the mission and began to practice the Ranger’s doleful tune.
Doyle guided the company to a narrow ravine and reined Saint Peter to a halt. He gazed around at the surroundings. “Sufficient cover, concealed from various points, easy access and escape. Let’s use this for our rallying point.”
Keech agreed with the Ranger’s evaluation of the ravine. Pa Abner had taught him and Sam the best strategies for regrouping in combat. The clearing would make a fitting rendezvous and was close enough to the prairie that a swift retreat across the lowlands would be feasible.
After dismounting and tying off, the young riders gathered close as Doyle encircled the horses with his bloodroot. A frigid breeze swept down the ravine, blowing the curls of dark blond hair that peeked beneath the Ranger’s brown hat.
The protections set, the Ranger patte
d the big knapsack and shook his head. He leaned toward Saint Peter and whispered into the Kelpie’s ear, then he gently scratched the creature’s broad muzzle. The black steed grunted back. “I’ve asked Saint Peter to help us protect our things. Your horses will be safe here. Now let’s make haste. We have a lot to get done.”
Nat hesitated, pulling off his hat. “Before we go, I need a word with my team. Alone.”
Doyle shrugged. “Make it quick.” He twisted toward the woods and strolled away.
Once the fellow looked out of earshot, Nat took to one knee in the snow.
The young riders huddled on their knees, and Nat put his arms around Quinn’s and Cutter’s necks. Keech followed suit, settling his arms over Cutter and Duck. Nat’s eyes were heavy with doubt. “I just want you to know I’m doggone proud of every single one of you. That includes you, Mr. Revels. I didn’t want to trust you at first, and for that I apologize. I was wrong to be so close-minded. You’ve shown true grit since taking up with the team. Thank you.”
Quinn looked embarrassed. “I just want to find Auntie Ruth.”
“We will. We’ll get Sheriff Strahan out, too, and he’ll guide us to Bonfire Crossing. We’ll accomplish our mission down to the penny.” Nat glanced at Keech and Cutter next. “I know you’ve both suffered loss and that you’re grieving over it. Are you fellas gonna be okay in there?”
“I’ll be dandy.” Cutter tried to look proud, despite the heartache inside his eyes.
“And you, Keech?”
“I’m ready, too. Let’s get moving.”
Nat slapped their shoulders. “I just want to make sure your heads are clear.” He then addressed the entire circle. “Before we go, let’s remember one thing. No matter what happens in that town, we’ll watch each other’s backs. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Duck. “Now let’s go already.”
Keech looked at his new friends with appreciation. After losing Sam, he couldn’t have asked for better trailmates to help him chase Bonfire Crossing. “Agreed.”
“Okay, that’s all. Let’s go get this done,” Nat said, and the young riders moved swiftly to catch up to the Texas Ranger.
The trail to Wisdom slithered through heavy cottonwood country. The young riders tucked in close behind their guide, bending low and keeping to cover. There were no signs of roving bandits, but Doyle warned against letting down their guard for even a second.
Stark branches cut off most of the sky, but through the tangled thatch, a baffling stain of darkness appeared ahead, engulfing the trees. Keech thought of the way morning fogs would sometimes enclose the Home for Lost Causes and settle around Low Hill beyond Pa’s property. Yet this fog was a wall of eclipse, engulfing them in terrible twilight, as if the hands of a clock had spun forward several hours.
With each step deeper into the darkness, the temperature dropped and the air turned soupy on Keech’s skin. He was reminded of the pressure and buzz of Floodwood. He set his teeth before they started chattering.
“Dios mío, it’s night already,” Cutter said.
“How’d this happen?” Quinn asked.
Doyle frowned at the sky. “A powerful curse, Mr. Revels. The work of a Spaniard named Ignatio. He can manipulate shadows, mold darkness, and raise the dead, and some who’ve encountered him suspect he can alter the weather, too. He laid this curse the day after you fled. The town of Wisdom will sit under this eternal night till Ignatio chooses to break it or till he perishes.”
Under his breath, Quinn whispered, “Sorry, Auntie Ruth. I didn’t mean to leave you in this nightmare.”
The company approached the foot of a steep embankment, a slope covered with a skin of frozen sumac. Doyle studied the incline, then muttered, “On your bellies.”
Following the Ranger’s lead, the young riders hunkered in the sumac and slogged up the embankment. At the top, they saw a faint orange flicker—something like torchlight—down in the distance. A dingy settlement sprawled before them, situated between a narrow creek to the west and a run of white boulders to the east. Dirt streets and alleyways ran this way and that, like a topsy-turvy maze, and numerous torches and streetlamps lit up a tightly clumped collection of buildings in the center of the burg. Squat huts, large canvas tents, warehouses, and tall barns surrounded the downtown area.
Standing around the town was a craggy wall of oak and cottonwood logs. Rickety watchtowers perched at the four corners of the border. A shallow moat filled with icy mud ran around the front of the perimeter, half-finished, then abandoned. Perhaps once the town of Wisdom had looked alive and inviting, but from their hiding spot atop the hill, it seemed only a miserable settlement.
Eagle-eyed as always, Nat whispered, “One man on each tower. Two at the gate. I count four guards patrolling the perimeter.”
Keech spotted the watchmen at the towers and the group wandering the outside of the wall, skirting the muddy moat. They carried musket rifles. The patrolling guards took lurching steps in the dirty snow, a stiff motion that Keech recognized all too well. “Thralls,” he whispered to Doyle.
“Indeed,” the Ranger said. “Ignatio must’ve raised this batch.”
Keech instantly recognized a problem—one that Nat must have realized as well, for the rancher glanced at Keech and Duck and said, “The second you two go down there, the thralls will know. We need to hide the amulets.”
Doyle gave the young riders a reassuring look. “Relax. My chant will quiet the charms enough to keep us hid.”
“We can’t trust that,” Nat said.
“Yeah, how do we know you won’t just leave us all exposed?” asked Cutter.
Quinn answered for the man. “Y’all don’t recollect that he hid me from the Chamelia? And hid us from the crow back on the prairie? And saved our lives on the river? I think it’s high time y’all trust the Ranger’s word.”
Nat glanced at Doyle with burning eyes. “Swear you won’t let us down.”
“You’ve got my word,” Doyle said. “The chant will work. But be aware that while you’re under the tune, you won’t feel any magics, either.”
Keech didn’t like the sound of that—the muscle of Pa’s amulet and Bennett Coal’s charm was often the only thing that kept the Lost Causes kicking back in Missouri.
“That’s why our shards didn’t turn cold or shine when we saw the crow back yonder,” Duck said. “Am I right? Your tune was blinding the crow but stifling the silver, too.”
Doyle shrugged. “Apologies. I don’t make the rules. But don’t fret. The silver will still work on the dead men, if needed. I’m only concealing you, not stopping the energies.”
The group turned its attention back to the towers and the thrall guards.
“I know a way under the wall, a place the guards probably wouldn’t check.” Quinn pointed to the slender creek on the west side of the perimeter. “But we’ll get dirty.”
Cutter flashed a grin. “A secret way in? What are we waiting for?” He shuffled to get up, but Nat stopped him and motioned toward the rugged entrance to the town.
“The gates are opening.”
Grumbling, Cutter settled back on his belly.
The Wisdom gate swiveled open, dragging through mud and snow, and a strange child with a bald spot on his head stepped out into the clearing, hands on his hips. The child took a wide stance and looked out toward the black hills.
Except it wasn’t a child at all but a rather short man in a frock coat. The jacket looked too long for his stubby torso, as did the curved sword sheathed on his hip.
The small man muttered something to the pair of thralls standing guard and pointed back at Wisdom. The two dead men shambled into the town, leaving the child-like man alone at the gate.
“Coward.” Doyle hissed the word through teeth gritted so tight that Keech thought they might shatter in his mouth.
Cutter’s face contorted with something like terror. He squeezed Keech’s arm.
“Cutter? What’s wrong?”
“Not a sound!” the Ranger m
umbled. “Don’t even move.”
Closing his eyes, Doyle began his low hum. The melody slithered into Keech’s ear and burrowed into his mind. The lullaby dulled the sound of the Kansas wind and somehow robbed the forest of any scent.
The Ranger was hiding them again.
Down at the gate, the short fellow scanned the hills. His eyes slid right over Keech, but they didn’t stop. The man’s face turned up, and he sniffed deeply at the air like a mongrel dog.
Keech held his breath.
After a time, the small man scratched his bare crown and stepped back through the gate. The two thrall guards emerged and resumed their weary watch.
Doyle gestured for the group to crawl back down the embankment. Once the town had dropped back out of sight, Keech turned to Cutter. “What in tarnation’s wrong with you?”
Cutter’s eyes refused to meet Keech’s. “Forget it.”
“If you know something about that man, we need to hear it.”
“Drop it, Lost Cause.”
Nat shoved in closer to the boy. “No, Cut. You’ve seen that fella before. It makes no sense to keep secrets from your trailmates. Spill the beans.”
Cutter’s face turned to stone, except for his eyes. They twitched side to side—the look of a kid planning a swift getaway. But instead of escaping, he said, “I don’t care none for your pushing, Embry.”
“We have to know what’s waiting for us down there.”
Cutter crossed himself with a shaky thumb, as if requesting courage from on high. “I ran across him back in Arkansas when I rode with my friend, Bishop. We met some real snakes.”
“Like Bad Whiskey?” Keech asked, remembering Whiskey’s claim that he had encountered Cutter in a previous life.
“That fella’s way worse than El Ojo. He ain’t a fighter. He’s something meaner. When he talks, his words rattle your brain. They stick to your soul like tar.”
The Fang of Bonfire Crossing Page 12