by Tonia Brown
“Lelanea!” he hollered as he jogged back to the camp.
“Keep it down,” she called out in a hoarse whisper. “You’ll wake Uncle.”
Dodger sprinted the last few feet, until he was amidst the tight circle of tents once more. “Where is Ched?”
Lelanea rushed up to place a warm finger over his chilled lips. “I said keep it down.”
The doc snored and snored, oblivious to their arguing.
“You should to go on ahead and wake him. We got trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“Where’s Ched?”
“He said he was bored and went for a walk. Why?”
“Did he take a weapon?”
“I think so. Dodger, what’s wrong?”
“There are wolves about.”
Lelanea looked into the darkness. “How do you know that?”
“I saw prints around the camp. Lots of them, but I think it may have just been one wolf. A big one, from the looks of it.” He ducked down beside his cot, patting the empty grass. “Where are my guns?”
“In my tent.”
Dodger snapped upright in a panic. “Why?”
“I was …” Lelanea chewed her bottom lip a second before she finished softly with, “cleaning them.”
She was lying, of course. But he wasn’t in the mood to argue the finer points of her tell. (The lip chewing, the pause, the almost-whisper.) Why she took the guns into her keeping for a little while was her business, but his need for them now was pressing. Their location, however, was unfortunate.
“Bring them here,” he demanded. “Now.”
“Dodger, everything is fine,” she said. “You don’t need to panic-”
“Yes I do. There’s one hell of a big, bad, ugly wolf out there, prowling around the camp. And you think that’s fine?”
“Ugly?” Lelanea gasped. “What makes you think it’s ugly?”
“Because anything with that wide of a stride ain’t bound to be pretty.”
“I see. Well you’ll be pleased to know that it isn’t anything at all, because there isn’t any wolf. Ugly or otherwise.”
“Stop your yammering and just get my guns, woman!”
With an audible crack of her neck, Lelanea tilted her head, set her jaw and parked her hands on her hips. A sure sign she was hopping mad. “For starters, they aren’t your guns. They belong to Uncle. Second, there isn’t any wolf. And if you dare refer to me as ‘woman’ again, I shall, why, I shall break your nose!”
“Why do you keep saying there isn’t any wolf? I saw tracks! Stop arguing and get the God damned guns!”
Dodger waited for her to obey.
She didn’t.
The doc snored on.
He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Fine! I’ll get them.”
“We saw a wolf earlier,” she said to his back just as he reached the entrance to her tent.
Dodger stopped in mid-step and turned on his heel to face her. “What?”
“We saw a wolf earlier, and Ched ran it off.”
“I thought you said he was on a walk.”
“He is. He wanted to make sure the thing was gone, so he took a walk around the area to check. He hasn’t been gone long.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that to begin with?”
“I tried to, but you wouldn’t listen to me. You were so hot to be the hero. Again.”
“I wasn’t hot to be anything-”
Lelanea cut him short with a snort as she stomped toward him. “I also wanted to see if you would really violate my privacy. Which apparently, you will. Thanks for showing me that.” She pushed past him into her tent. “Now I know to watch my things more closely lest your prying eyes wander upon them.”
“I didn’t mean to-”
“Here,” she said over him, shoving the gun belt through the part in the tent. “Here are your precious guns. Now leave me alone.”
Dodger took the belt from her, deliberately allowing his fingers to linger upon hers for just a breath of a moment. She jerked back with a jolt at his contact, almost dropping the guns in the process. What had he done to anger her so much? What had he said? That was it. It was something he said. He searched their conversation, sifting through the gasps and groans and grimaces until he heard the echo of her threat against his nose. Just for calling her ‘woman.’ Really? Was that all? He didn’t think she could get so upset over a little informality. But maybe it wasn’t just informality to her. Maybe she saw it as a lack of respect.
“Miss Lelanea?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to address you so casually. I do apologize.”
“Go away.” There was a hitch in her voice. She was either weeping or trying or keep from doing so. “I’m trying to sleep.”
He could do nothing but comply. “Yes, ma’am.”
Dodger strapped the guns about his waist and wandered to the far edge of camp, where he stood watching the shadows in silence. Soon there would be light and he could search the camp properly for the tracks. Until then, he would sit, and he would wait, and he would ponder what in the hell he’d done to make the woman so all-fired mad.
That and listen to the boss man snore.
“Boon?” Dodger whispered.
No answer.
“Boon? Where are you?” he asked, not expecting a reply and not getting one.
Time passed slowly, as it tends to do when your gut roils with the worry of personal affairs. Dodger had never had worries like this before. Of course, life was so much simpler when you worked alone. You killed who needed killing, and damn everyone else. But now? Now he had something he’d never expected to end up with. He had friends. And friends brought complications. Not that Lelanea was a complication, no. But dealing with her, and his growing feelings for her, sure was. He didn’t have room in his life for … that sort of thing, much less the sort of thing that couldn’t be reciprocated because the target of his sort of thing felt her sort of thing for a dead man.
The sun began its ascent in the east, bringing light and the promise of a new day to the land. In those first few moments of dawn, Dodger began his search of the perimeter, seeking out those worrisome tracks. They were still there, and still enormous. By the light of day, he confirmed his initial assessment. The tracks appeared to be the prints of one animal. One enormous wolf circled the camp and came in close. After that, the prints were tamped out by a multitude of boots—Ched’s or Lelanea’s as they scared the thing off. He tried to trace its direction, to find out where it may have slipped off to, but all he found were more boot prints. Most likely made by Ched when he went after the thing.
A search from which the not-dead man had yet to return.
The professor’s snoring tapered off into a sigh, then a smacking of lips, followed by a healthy yawn. “Well, that was refreshing. I don’t believe I’ve ever slept so soundly.”
“Good morning, Uncle,” Lelanea said.
“Morning, Ludda. Can you help me up? I need to have a bit of a … you know what.”
“I’ll get a basin for you.”
“No, no. I want to go as nature intended.”
“Nature?”
“I want to go in the grass. Like the other men.”
“Barbaric.”
“Not at all. I think it will be rather fun.”
“You need to stay in bed.”
“Let me up!” There came a fair amount of grunting and fussing before the professor said, “Quit sulking, young lady. I promise I won’t stray far.”
Dodger chuckled at the exchange as he continued to search the tall grass for any signs of life—or in Ched’s case, signs of not-life. Behind him rose the sounds of the doc tending to his morning constitution. The heavy shuffle of his unsteady steps. Coughs and sighs and other bodily noises. More shuffling, then all settled down again.
“What’s for brekkies?” the doc asked. “I’m starving.”
“Oatmeal,” Lelanea said.
“Ugh. I hate oatmeal. Let’s have waffles!”
Lelanea cluc
ked her tongue. “You can’t have waffles.”
“Why not? I’m a grown man. If I can wee in the grass, I can choose my own meals.”
“Because you didn’t make cans of waffles, Uncle. And until we have access to the kitchen, we are stuck with the Auto-Reheat Rations. Which, thanks to your infinite wisdom, come in either oatmeal or chicken soup. Remember?”
“Ah, yes. I remember now. I shall have to look into making a wider variety of choices when this is over. No wonder the ARRs didn’t become more popular. What was I thinking? And Mr. Dodger? What on earth are you doing over there?”
Dodger stood from his crouch over the myriad prints. “Just following up on something, sir.” He returned to the center of camp just as Lelanea was popping the top on another canister of oatmeal.
“Here,” she said, offering him the quickly warming can.
“I’ll pass.”
“You’ll eat it.” Lelanea all but shoved the can and a spoon at him.
Rather than start another argument, he accepted the canister and spoon. The oatmeal wasn’t too bad, and truth be told, he was a bit hungry.
“What sort of thing are you following up on?” the doc asked between spoonfuls.
“Wolves.”
Around a mouthful of oatmeal, the doc shouted, “Wolves!” He choked on the very word, coughing and sputtering and hocking great wads of oatmeal all over his cot as he struggled to catch his breath. Lelanea rushed to his side and began rubbing wide circles on the man’s back, all the while cutting her eyes at Dodger. Dodger shrugged. What could he do? His boss man asked him a question. He wasn’t going to lie to save the man the worry. This was a real problem, and everyone needed to prepare for it.
“W-w-wolves?” the doc asked.
“Yes, sir,” Dodger said. “Well, one wolf at the least. Maybe more.”
“Oh?” The doc flicked his glance to his niece, then back to Dodger. “Are you certain?”
“I found tracks circling the camp. Big prints, too. I’ll bet the beast is a good three hundred pounds or more.”
“But you didn’t actually see it?”
“No, sir. Just the tracks. But Lelanea claims that she and Ched saw it. And ran it off.”
“Really?” the doc asked of his niece.
“We did,” she said. “Ched took off after it to make sure it was gone.”
“And?”
Dodger gave Lelanea a smug look.
“Well?” the doc asked. “Did he find anything?”
“He hasn’t returned,” Lelanea said.
“Well that can’t be good.”
Finally, Dodger thought. Someone with some sense!
“He shouldn’t be out in the night air like that,” the doc explained. “It’s not healthy for his skin. Or any other part of him.” The doc grimaced at Dodger. “He gets damp, you see. Sets up with mildew and the like.”
“Mildew?” Dodger asked. “Sir, he went after a wild animal and hasn’t returned. Doesn’t that seem a bit more important than mold?”
“Poppycock! Ched can handle himself. And I’m sure he took a weapon of some sort. He isn’t daft.” The professor chuckled. “Well, not completely daft.”
“What if he doesn’t return?”
“He will,” Lelanea said. “In his own time. He’s a free man, Mr. Dodger. He can come and go as he likes.”
Ah, he was back to Mr. Dodger now. Then she was still upset with him. “My point is anything could’ve happened to him. He could be out there dead in a ditch.” Dodger winced at the pair of smirks that met his words. “You know what I mean.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I see his point,” the doc said, punctuating his agreement by waggling his spoon at Dodger. “Ched is capable of handling himself, but even he can get into trouble. We all know that well enough. What course of action do you suggest, Mr. Dodger?”
“We should go look for him,” Dodger said.
“I don’t think so,” Lelanea said. “Uncle isn’t going anywhere with that head wound. For that matter, you shouldn’t even be up and about.”
“Then I’ll go alone. You two should be safe enough-”
“Oh, no, no, no,” the doc said. “I’m afraid that is impossible. With Ched and Feng both indisposed and the Sleipnir unable to grace me with her shelter, I’m going to have to ask you to remain here and do what I hired you to do. I’m sorry, but I’m a sitting duck out here in the open. I need your protection.”
Dodger couldn’t argue with that. After all, the man did hire him to do a very specific job. “I understand, sir, but someone needs to go after him. Anything could have happened.”
“But who can go?”
“Mr. Torque?” Dodger recommended.
“Impossible.”
“I know it will be hard to get him to agree, but-”
“It’s not his attitude. It’s his function. He can’t wander more than a few meters from the line. His power source is dependant upon constant contact with the Sleipnir. He can depart for a limited time, but not long.”
“Oh. I suppose that’s out, then.”
“I’ll go,” Lelanea said.
Dodger stared hard at her. “You?”
“Yes, Mr. Dodger. I’m also perfectly capable of handling myself. I’m a fair tracker, though it’s been a few years since I’ve put my skills into employment. I’ll make a quick sweep of the area and be back before lunch.”
Lelanea, a tracker? Dodger remembered how she readily identified Betty Bolton’s plot as being freshly turned. How she always seemed to be aware of her surroundings. How he could never quite catch her off guard.
“I reckon you can handle yourself,” he said.
“Ludda?” the doc whispered. “You aren’t really going to go, are you?”
“I have to, Uncle,” she said. “Ched might be in danger. Who else can drag his sorry carcass back here for you to patch up?” She lowered her head to his shoulder and hugged him close. “I shan’t be long.”
“I’ll worry for you. I always worry so much for you.”
“I know.”
Dodger turned away, embarrassed by the touching moment between the family members. As he looked eastward to the horizon, he found another unexpected sight. Gee, but wasn’t today just full of ‘em? First the paw prints, now this. Though, to be fair, the paw prints were not quite as disturbing as what he narrowed his eyes at now. A lone wolf Dodger could deal with, no matter how big. This could prove a bit trickier.
A lone wolf was preferable to four strangers approaching on horseback.
****
back to toc
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Chapter Six
Four for the Road
In which Dodger catches a ride
“We got company,” Dodger said.
“Who could that be?” the doc asked.
“I aim to find out.” Dodger pulled on his jacket and wrapped the length around his waist to keep the guns out of sight. For now, at least. “Did we grab any other weapons off the line?”
“A long shot,” Lelanea said. “But I think Ched took it with him.”
“Great.” Dodger drew Florence (or was that Hortense?) and tossed the gun to Lelanea. “You stay here and keep an eye on him. Anyone approaches without a signal from me, you open fire. Understand?”
Lelanea lifted the gun to her shoulder and nodded.
Assured that she could hold down the fort, as it were, Dodger pulled his coat closed once more and stalked through the tall grass to meet the approaching party. The remaining gun lay heavy on his thigh, the weight of it teasing him with an extra slap at each step, as if itching for an oncoming fight. Again, he found himself missing his ghostly partner. Things would be a fair sight simpler if Boon were here to let him know what was up ahead.
“Boon?” he whispered through clenched teeth.
Nothing. Where was the wandering spirit?
Each of the four horses served as beast of burden to an able-bodied man. The far left was a heavyset older male, graying at the temples
and broad shouldered. (Air of authority, maybe the man in charge, or thought he was.) Next to him rode a younger man, similar in build and looks. (Probably an offspring.) Beside the young man was another older male, gray headed, smaller in build with pinched features and a friendly smile. (The only one smiling.) The last man on Dodger’s right was thin as a post and pale as a ghost, with a burst of curly red hair and deep-set red-rimmed eyes. (Another drunk?) But more important than this personal assessment was the fact that each man carried a single pistol.
As they drew close, they slowed their mounts down to a trot, intending to go around Dodger on more important business.
Dodger raised his hand and yelled out, “Morning, gents!”
The horses came to a whinnying stop just a few yards from Dodger. The men looked down at him, as if unsure what to make of him, then in a comical move, lifted their heads as one to look beyond him, to the camp and the train.
“Can I help you fellers out?” Dodger asked.
The biggest man spat a slimy wad of chew at Dodger’s feet. A dribble of brown ran down his stubbly chin. “You can help me out by getting the hell out of my town.”
“Buster,” the gray-headed man scolded. “That’s no way to treat a visitor.”
“He ain’t no visitor. He’s trespassin ’.”
“Yeah,” the younger man between them said. “Trespassin’.”
The redhead said nothing. He stared beyond Dodger, to some place in the distance. Dodger’s early judgment was wrong. Those eyes weren’t red from the drink. They were swollen from recently spent tears.
The oldest man shook his shaggy head at the others. “You’ll have to excuse them, Mr. …?”
“Dodger,” Dodger said, stepping up to the horse as he extending his hand to the rider.
“I’m Robert Pitch.” The elder gave it a firm shake, then motioned to the men on his right. “This is my boy, Buster, and my grandson William.” Pitch nodded to the thin Irishman on his left. “This here is Douglas McBride.”
“Well met.” Dodger stepped back again an touched his brow before he forgot his hat was back on the line.
The redhead nodded ever so slightly, but the two burly men barely grunted in response.
“Well met indeed,” Robert said. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re all camped out here for? There’s a perfectly good inn not five miles from here.”