Silver on the Road

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “Don’t,” he said. “You push yourself too hard, tomorrow will be worse. The road cuts by a creek in a bit; we’ll stop there, stretch our legs. We’re not rushing anywhere; there’s no need for you to damage yourself from sheer muleheadedness. We already have one of those on this trip.”

  She wanted to deny that she was being stubborn, but bit the retort back. She might sass the man in the saloon, but not her mentor. Not until she’d earned that right, anyway, the way she’d earned the right to sass back to the boss. And he wasn’t wrong: a chance to stretch her legs would be welcome.

  Gabriel had spent much of the morning cursing himself for having offered to mentor in the first place, for putting himself in a position to be manipulated, used. And for not having the courage to tell the devil where he could put his offer.

  The devil ran a fair game: if he’d said no, there would have been no repercussions. But the devil also knew what bargains to offer; that was why he was so dangerous, that even sober, sane men lost their wits around him.

  And Gabriel had offered before he knew what he was stepping into. More fool him.

  He had never ridden with a woman before, not a new rider, anyway. The female riders he’d met were older, harder. Trained. They knew their limits, knew better than to let pride get in the way of survival. He needed to temper what he knew, what he’d planned. Miss Isobel might have come out of the devil’s own lair, but she was in some ways as innocent, as helpless as an Eastern lamb.

  He grinned, imagining her reaction to that. She’d be in a prickle, her fine eyes alight with indignation, her hands fisted on her hips in a way that on a larger woman might be fearsome. She might be young, but he’d no doubt she was fierce. Still, he’d need to teach her how to throw a punch before they started tangling with others; a little thing like that needed to be able to protect herself with more than the side of her tongue. Although he’d noted a blade strapped to her saddle; he wondered if she knew how to use it.

  He should have asked before. He’d assumed the devil would not send her out unprepared, but that was not an assumption he should have made.

  “Is that the creek?” she asked, and he lifted his head to see the road drop slightly, disappearing out of sight before picking up again in the distance.

  “Good eye,” he said; the slight hollow of the creek wasn’t obvious from here. “We’ll stop on this side; it should be dryer.”

  “Dryer” was a relative term: the creek was high with early spring runoff, and even the wider bank on this side was slick and slippery, with a few scrub willows stretching branches and roots toward the water. He turned Steady off the path before the slope and slid out of the saddle.

  He turned to see Isobel attempt to echo his movement, but her body was stiff from so many hours in the saddle, and the moment her feet touched the ground her entire body buckled, only the mare’s solid presence keeping her from going to her knees in agony.

  “Here now, let go.” Gabriel was at her side in an instant, his hands steadying her until she was able to stand again. “You should have said something if you were that sore.” He tried to keep his tone even, but he was annoyed: at her, at himself, at the devil and all his machinations that put them here.

  “I’m all right,” she said, wobbling at the knees, but upright.

  “Of course you are.” He led her away from the mare, watching how she moved, noting how her body shook under the stress. “Don’t sit down, not just yet. You need to stretch. Walk if you can, but don’t sit down.”

  The horses had lowered their heads and were already nibbling at the grass. The mare might be new, but she was settling in well, and he trusted her to stick with Steady even if something were to spook them. The mule, faithful as ever, wouldn’t spook if someone blew the Gjallahorn in one floppy ear. All three of them scented the air, nostrils blowing, but none seemed inclined to test the slippery bank to find the water themselves.

  “Yeah, all right,” he said to them. “You’ll get yours; just wait a moment.”

  “Tell me it gets easier?” Isobel had taken a few more steps, wobbly but determined, and then stopped, grimacing as she pressed her hands into the small of her back.

  “It does. But getting back on, that’s going to hurt like blazes for a bit. Walk some more; it’ll help.” He took his hat off and ran fingers through his hair, scratching where the sweat left his scalp itchy, and watched her move. Her shoulders slowly straightened, and she shook out hands that were clearly cramped from holding the reins too tightly.

  “Where are we?”

  “Still inside your boss’s hand,” he said, turning away to give her some privacy for any stretching she might need to do, bending to adjust Steady’s belly strap. “Another few hours’ ride, we’ll be in Patch Junction. We’ll stop there for the night.”

  “I know Patch,” she said, sounding surprised. “Know of it, anyways. One of our girls, she went to live there.”

  “You want to stop in and say hello?”

  She seemed to be considering that. “No. I . . . It’s been a while. I wouldn’t know what to say to her.”

  “You might find different, seeing her again.”

  “Maybe. I—”

  The sound of hoofbeats made them both stop and look up. His hand reached for the knife in his boot, letting three fingers rest on the leather sheath without unsnapping it. Isobel merely stood there, waiting. She made no move to reach for a weapon of any sort, and he sighed. He knew Flood was safe a place as existed, but did they teach their girls nothing?

  There was splashing from the creek, and the sound of voices. Four horses, he determined, going at a trot but not in any great hurry. And he could hear the moment they noticed the horses, when they slowed, coming up out of the water.

  “Isobel. Behind the horses.” She didn’t hesitate, didn’t question, but ducked down, using the mule’s packs to hide behind. He could hear her breathing, heard her trying to calm it.

  And then the riders were in sight, and he stood, turning so as to draw the riders’ attention. Four of them—too many for a knife alone to handle. He placed a hand on Steady’s flank, then slid it forward to where the flintlock, a short-muzzled carbine, was strapped to his saddle, sliding it free and loading it with a practiced hand. He missed his longrifle, but its accuracy was set against the fact that it took twice as long to load, and danger came up fast and close more often than it hung back at a distance.

  A single shot wouldn’t do much against four, either way, but it might make them hesitate if they meant mischief. And he could take one of them out before they came any closer, leaving only three to deal with.

  “Gentlemen,” he said in greeting as they drew to a halt. Good horseflesh, deep-chested but not flashy, their riders a somber bunch likewise, dusters and battered gear, and not a star or sigil among them. That could be good or ill.

  “Two horses and a mule, but only one rider,” the lead man said, easing in his saddle. “Armed, yet. You afeared of us?”

  “Cautious of strangers,” he said, keeping the musket’s barrel tilted toward the ground for now.

  “Well I’m Jed, that’s Dickon, Jared, and Rainy.” Each of the men nodded as they were introduced, the last one clearly native, although he was dressed in the same canvas and cloth as the others, his hair cut short like theirs. “And now we’re not strangers, are we?”

  He didn’t like the situation, but they weren’t being hostile. He needed to keep it that way. And it was clear they knew there was a second rider. “I’m Gabe. Iz, c’mon out.”

  He watched as their attention shifted to the girl. There was interest there but no aggression, no lust obvious on their faces. Gabriel kept the carbine in clear sight just in case. “This is Isobel. She’s green on the road.”

  An innocent. Under his protection. The warning was clear, as was his steady hand on his weapon.

  “Ma’am,” Jed said, tipping his hat. “
Welcome to the road.”

  “Thank you.” She was using her saloon voice again, softer and wispier. He’d have to break her of that; this was no place or time to be soft.

  “Don’t suppose y’all have seen anything on the road as shouldn’t have been there?” Jed was asking him now, looking away from Isobel. His message was clear: they were on business and had no interest in the girl. Or they were trying to lull him.

  “Can’t say as we have, no. What’s gone missing?” Four men chasing down something, and not a sigil-badge among them, so they weren’t marshals. Could be a posse, although they were supposed to identify themselves too. But they had a look in their eye he knew too well: trouble.

  “Someone rousted a fetch a few nights ago. Got a bit ugly.”

  “A fetch?” Isobel sounded far too excited, considering where she’d lived. Although he supposed a fetch wouldn’t go anywhere near Flood, not unless it wanted to be knocked all the way back to its body.

  “Nasty thing,” Dickon, Gabriel thought, said, a clear Eastern clip to his voice. Not born here, then, and come late in life. Rare, that—and odds were he’d left trouble behind him, too. “But nothing you should fuss your pretty eyes about.”

  “My eyes, pretty as they may be, have seen worse things without a fuss,” Isobel said, and the sudden cool in her voice could’ve put ice on the brook. Maybe he wouldn’t have to teach her so much after all, Gabriel thought, although he could have wished she’d found a different time to become fierce.

  The boys were eyeing her with a little too much interest now, so he shifted ostentatiously, pulling their attention back to him the way he would if trying to redirect a jury. “Anything specific we should be looking for?” Fetches—the incorporeal form of a living body—could be a significant problem or just be a general nuisance, but he liked to know which was what. Mostly, though, he just wanted these men gone and on their way, elsewhere.

  “Nah, this one’s a mischief-maker, most likely, but we want to find it before it decides to grow a purpose. And so we can pick up the bounty, of course.” Jed’s smile was a death’s head rictus, drawn too far back over his jaw, and his gaze flicked over to Isobel, quickly enough that a soul not watching for it might have missed it. Posse, then, but not a sworn-in one, he’d venture. Not bound by Law.

  “Of course,” Gabriel said. Bounty on a fetch wouldn’t be much unless they had cause to worry about it. More than likely they enjoyed the chase, the excuse to cause trouble and not catch trouble in return. “Good hunting to you. We’d like to avoid even mischief, this trip,” he went on. “Road ahead’s clear?”

  “Clear as the noon sky. Just stick to the road and you should be fine. You heading over to Whiskey Springs?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Then we’ll likely see you there when this is done.” Jed tipped his hat to Isobel, with another quick flicker of his eyes, and chivied his men on their way.

  Gabriel waited until they picked up a trot again before he exhaled, then set his attention to unloading the flintlock—a tricky task but better than discharging the shot and risking more attention. He was sweating, he realized, far more than the day’s warmth would excuse.

  “We’re not going to Whiskey Springs,” Isobel said, frowning.

  “I didn’t say we were going there; I said we were heading there. We are. Mostly.” Finished with the weapon, he secured it again, then turned to her and knelt on the ground, picking up a stick and laying it on the grass. “This is the road. We’re here”—he placed his left-hand thumb on one side. “Patch Junction is here”—his hand spanned over the stick, stretching out to mark a spot at the other end. “Whiskey Springs is here”—his right hand reached over and tapped a spot just a little off from the first town’s marker, southwest as the map was laid out. “Same direction.”

  The girl studied the makeshift map, her face still scrunched in a frown that made her seem even younger. “They were a posse?” Why didn’t you trust them? she was really asking, clear as day.

  “No sigils to say they were sworn in proper, so they might’ve been a bounty mob. But the only difference between the two is how official they are. The sort of men sign on for that, they’re not the sort you want to travel with.”

  She considered that, and nodded. “But you didn’t want to lie to them. Not outright.”

  “If you can avoid lying, you should,” Gabriel said. “That’s the third rule.”

  “What are the first two rules?” she asked, reasonably enough.

  “Things to be learned later. Now collect the horses; sore or not, I don’t want to linger, in case those four decide to circle back.”

  Her body still ached, but Izzy pulled herself into the saddle and followed Gabriel back onto the trail and down to the water. Although the creek wasn’t overly deep, the current was swift and the water chilled enough that the scattered drops that landed on her skin made her shiver. She couldn’t imagine how the mare felt, slogging through water halfway up her legs. But Uvnee followed right after Steady, her nose practically in his tail, while the mule was already on the other side and waiting, like a patient dog.

  She wasn’t a child; she knew what Gabriel had been worrying at. The way that man had looked at her wasn’t anything new: men looked, even when they weren’t supposed to. But this had been the first time it’d happened where the boss wasn’t, and she knew—and Gabriel knew—that one against four wasn’t enough to stop ’em if they’d a mind for violence.

  Knowing that the world outside was dangerous and having it shoved up in your face were different things entire. Izzy was almost glad for the soreness in her body and the wet stink of horseflesh and leather, giving her something to think about other than might-haves and what-ifs.

  Halfway across the creek, something twitched inside her, not a pain so much as a gentle twist against her ribs. Izzy dropped the reins and pressed the palm of her left hand flat against her stomach, like she’d felt it gurgle from hunger, even though it hadn’t felt like that at all. And then it was gone, and Uvnee was slogging up the other bank as though nothing had happened, Izzy leaning forward like she’d been taught, pressing her legs into the mare’s side in encouragement.

  The road picked up again on the other side, but half as wide as it had been, the dirt far more rutted and pitted with wear. She twisted in her saddle, feeling muscles protest again, and looked back at the other side.

  “Something changed.” She knew that, but she didn’t know what, or why, or how she could tell.

  “Been a while since you crossed running water,” Gabriel said, and it was like he was laughing at her, but polite-like so she couldn’t take offense. He was her mentor: she wasn’t allowed to take offense, anyways.

  She shook her head in agreement. Folks in Flood stayed on their side of the water, mostly, unless they had cause to do otherwise. “What?”

  “Running water’s like the opposite of a crossroads,” he said. “If it’s deep and fast enough, anyway. Not much magic can pass over, not without being watered down itself. You remember that, if anything’s ever chasing you.” He sighed. “They didn’t tell you much of anything, did they?”

  Izzy felt the insult sharply. “I know how to tell if someone’s cutting their cards or watering a drink,” she said. “I can tell you if someone’s flush, or if they’re going to run a tab they can’t pay. I can tell you what pain a body’s suffering inside. And I know when someone’s lying to me.”

  “Do you, now?” He didn’t sound impressed at all.

  “Yes. But that won’t be much use here, will it? If nobody lies on the road.”

  The sass came unbidden and she drew a sharp breath, but it made him laugh that warm, not-really-amused laugh she’d heard from him before, not angry. “Never said nobody lies, Isobel. I said if you can avoid lying, you should. You ken the difference?”

  Yes, she started to say, exasperated, but the word caught at her teeth. Tha
t was like one of the boss’s tests, his question. Wasn’t about answering but thinking on.

  He didn’t seem to expect her to answer, only turned his horse to face the road and set off again, that same slow and even walk. They rode on while the sun shifted into afternoon, and if he hummed a bit under his breath and looked sideways at her a time or three, he left her and her thoughts be.

  Eventually, though, she let both the question and the worry fade, sinking back into the sensations surrounding her: the creak of leather and the roll of the mare’s body beneath her, the smell of sun-warmed flesh and dry dust, fresh green and the hint of something spicy and not unpleasant in the breeze, letting go of everything but the moment. Even the soreness in her body seemed a thing distant from her, until the sun began to set, the air cooled, and the outline of Patch Junction appeared in front of them.

  They entered Patch Junction proper as the last sunlight was streaking the clouds overhead with pale orange light. Izzy tried not to feel intimidated as they rode down past storefronts that rose two stories high, brightly whitewashed, with painted shutters and flowers set in window boxes, tidy enough to say that folk with some wealth lived here. She’d known Flood was plain, but she’d never thought it dowdy before.

  She firmed her chin and pulled her shoulders back, as though daring anyone to point at her as a poor relation. Flood was the boss’s town; it didn’t need to prettify for strangers.

  The town was half again the size of Flood and three times as crowded, from what she could see, the main street angling off the road away into the plain, two smaller streets crooked off of that, like a preacher cactus. She caught a glimpse of single-story buildings and garden plots down those streets before they rode on, past the saloon where Izzy had thought they’d stop, and the mercantile to their left.