Wrangler

by Hondo Jinx

  “Sprite children mature quickly. True infancy lasts only a few weeks. They’re toddlers for a few months and children for only a few years. At four, they are considered adults.”

  “Oh.” It wasn’t the brightest reply, but Braddock’s head was spinning with implications. Something in him bristled, realizing that in a few short years, he would have perhaps dozens of mature daughters to feed, father, and defend.

  “What’s more,” Elizabeth continued, “Philia assures me that we will attract others. Not just sprites. Other monster girls. Maybe even other humanoids. She feels strongly that the meadow will become a busy hub, a sanctuary in the wilderness.”

  Braddock rubbed his chin at that. “All right, darlin. Once the weather breaks and the plowing and planting are finished, we’ll start building your school.”

  That earned a crisp nod from the determined redhead.

  One thing was for sure. No matter how many students Elizabeth had, she would handle them.

  During daily weapons training, she was the one female with the heart of a battler.

  She was very good with the bow, decent with the spears, and extremely aggressive with the cudgel, which she called her shillelagh.

  Whenever she and Braddock sparred with cudgels, she came at him hard and fast, her pretty face twisted into a mask of determination and violence.

  Which was good because it more closely resembled combat and kept Braddock on his toes, but he couldn’t help wondering what, beyond her Irish blood, was fueling her fire.

  Was she still angry about his taking mistresses?

  He suspected women would forever remain a mystery to him.

  For as much as he enjoyed his wife, mistresses, and the community they were building, he still loved striking out into the wilderness with his mustang or on foot, alone.

  Back on Earth, the high, lonely places had always beckoned him. Here on Tardoon, their call was even more powerful because every trip in this strange world was a voyage of discovery.

  The far reaches of Tardoon beckoned, as well. What lay beyond the surrounding mountains? It was a sweet mystery. Neither the sprites nor the fur folk had traveled, so they couldn’t tell him much. As a result, Braddock longed to ride off and see more of this awesome land, to see its mountains and rivers, its towns and cities, its lakes and oceans, its countries and people.

  But first, he had a home to build and people to feed and defend. Someday, however, he would travel this new world and see its sights.

  These were his thoughts as, having ridden around the outer edge of the field and drawn to within a hundred yards of the deer, he dismounted and picketed the buckskin and fastened his snowshoes. Then he swapped spear for bow, slung the quiver over his shoulder, and nocked an arrow.

  At that point, of course, Braddock had no idea he was about to be fighting for his life.

  31

  The deer had found a good feeding place and were likely to stay put until something spooked them. Braddock wasn’t sure he could get close enough for a sure shot. If that was the case, so be it.

  After feeding, the deer would go someplace to rest. If need be, Braddock would hold off then get between them and that place and take his shot or start his stalking afresh.

  Unless the predator struck first and ruined everything.

  He edged slowly forward. Fresh powder topped the snow, so he moved silently, keeping a tangled deadfall within the peninsular forest between the deer and him.

  He reached the deadfall without spooking the herd, crept to the edge, and found himself twenty-five yards from a fat doe. He couldn’t see the buck from his vantage point but knew he was ten or fifteen yards off to the left.

  With time, the might drift into Braddock’s field of fire.

  Might.

  But meat trumps might.

  Besides, does are tender and less gamey than bucks.

  So Braddock dismissed the buck from his mind and focused on the big, sleek doe.

  Moving with exquisite slowness, he pivoted slightly, finding the best angle to avoid the branches and saplings between where he stood and his target. Satisfied, he drew the bow, touching his thumb knuckle to the corner of his mouth.

  Suddenly wary, the doe lifted her head. She paused in her chewing. Her ears flicked and twisted, listening, and her black nose trembled, testing the wind that was luckily still blowing from the west, leaving Braddock out of the equation.

  He relaxed—a thing that wouldn’t have been possible holding full-draw for this long back on Earth—and double-checked his aim.

  Tension rippled through the doe’s hide, which shone in the sunlight. She snorted and stamped the ground.

  Braddock took his shot. The bowstring twanged, and the arrow leapt away, straight and true, as he watched, holding his bow steady after the shot as his father had taught him many years earlier.

  The arrow took the doe behind the shoulder. She hunched with it, jumped forward, fell, got quickly to her feet, and cut back the other way, packing a leg as she humped after the fleeing herd.

  Knowing he had scored a fatal shot, Braddock waited.

  The last he saw of the herd was the twitch of their white tails as they vanished over a snowy knoll and started down the western slope.

  The doe lagged, struggling after them with a wobbling gate and collapsed halfway to the knoll beside a large, lonely tree and clustered briars that stood like an island at the center of the snowy field.

  The doe lay there thrashing in the snow. Braddock started toward her, not bothering to nock another arrow, and drew his bowie knife. There is no sense shooting an animal that’s down for good. That’s a good way to ruin an arrow. Besides, it’s quicker and cleaner to get behind the dying animal and use a blade.

  The blood trail was heavy and very bright against the white snow.

  Braddock moved with a purpose, wanting to put her out of her misery quickly. In the excitement of the hunt, he had momentarily forgotten all else, but crossing the open space, he scanned his surroundings for the flying predator and saw nothing.

  Still, its possible presence rankled him. Yes, he had made his kill before the predator could scare off the herd, but now he had a new problem.

  Under normal circumstances, he would field dress the doe and leave her lay while he fetched the buckskin, then pack the meat home on horseback.

  With the predator nearby, should he risk leaving the meat to fetch the horse?

  He didn’t relish the thought of dragging this big deer through the snow.

  When he reached the doe, her eyes were already gazed with death. She had made it halfway under the big tree. He brushed the snow from the big roots and set his bow atop them and knelt to work on the steaming carcass.

  A cold wind blew up out of the western valley, making him squint against the bite of icy grit.

  As he touched the tip of the Bowie to the doe’s hide, something scraped bark above and behind him, and a woman’s voice filled his head.

  Not his ears.

  His head.

  Her voice filled his skull in a triumphant exclamation.

  Meat!

  Whipping around at the first scraping sound, Braddock was struck hard in the upper back and shoulders and sprawled forward, clutching his knife.

  Something snapped down hard on the upturned collar of his sheepskin jacket and twisted with such force that he was tossed, cartwheeling into the snowy field.

  Die, meat, die!

  The woman’s command warbled with rage in his head, and Braddock whipped around just in time to catch a discordant glimpse of his onrushing attacker.

  Angry amber eyes glared above a blue beak. Huge white wings spread away from the naked breasts and torso of a human woman with feathered legs that ended in flexed eagle’s feet, complete with sharp-looking talons.

  In a flurry of white feathers, the bird woman pounded into Braddock, flapping her wings as her talons raked his legs, slicing through the thick shotgun chaps and cutting deeply into his quadriceps.

  Roaring with
pain and fury, Braddock lurched up and pounded the Bowie into her feathered thigh.

  Screaming, the bird woman’s head shot forward with uncanny speed.

  If not for Braddock’s enhanced reflexes, she would have torn out his throat. But he barely managed to block her attack by shoving his forearm into her snapping beak.

  She clamped down hard and jerked sideways, snapping his forearm like kindling, then pulled sharply, yanking his shoulder from its socket and jerking him onto his side.

  Braddock’s arm dropped uselessly to the ground. He rolled back in her direction, instinctively knowing she was trying to get another shot at the back of his neck.

  She struck again.

  For a time, they tangled in a deadly frenzy. Braddock kicked and slashed, wishing he had time to pull his revolver.

  The bird woman struck, jerked away, and struck again, like a hawk finishing a venomous snake.

  Braddock hollered and fought, raging in a place beyond thought or even pain, hitting and getting hit, transformed into a wild creature fighting for survival.

  Several times, she sliced his flesh deeply, and several times, his blade tore through feathers and flesh. Braddock but dimly noted these scores, so focused was he on destroying his opponent.

  Her powerful legs kicked him in the stomach and tore into the sheepskin coat, trying to disembowel him, but he stabbed her in the rump and ripped the blade through her buttock.

  She leapt away with a shriek then struck again, driving her clawed feet once more at his midsection, determined to tear out his guts.

  Reflexively, Braddock drew in his bloody legs, and her talons raked across his new snowshoes, snapping through wood and vine and leather.

  He kicked out, roaring, trying to push her back.

  Her talons scrabbled against his ruined snowshoes and sliced his lower legs then shot forward and punctured his side.

  He bellowed with pain and determination and slashed wildly.

  But the bird woman was too quick. She evaded the blade, beat her wings, and lifted up to pounce again, eyes flaring triumphantly.

  Braddock drew his good arm back, looking to hurl the blade. As he swung it forward, his attacker hesitated, staring at his face with surprise.

  You are man?

  Her hesitation cost her dearly. The Bowie hit her high in the gut and sunk to the hilt.

  The bird woman gave a great squawk, lurched hard, and beat her wings, rising into the air.

  Whipping away across the field, she crashed into the snowy ground and tumbled into the timber.

  Braddock struggled up and drew a revolver and limped across the field as fast as he could. Only then did the extent of his injuries begin to dawn on him.

  His left arm hung like dead meat from its ruined shoulder, flopping limply as he lurched toward the forest. His legs stumbled, badly weakened by their injuries, and his vision was growing blurry at the edges as a deep chill shuddered through his body. Blood poured down his side and legs and sloshed in his boots.

  Great mountains of pain towered at the edge of Braddock’s awareness, but he refused to give them the attention they demanded, pushing through the agony to pull himself across the seemingly endless field to where he had seen his attacker fall.

  He had to finish her off before he passed out, allowing her to come back and kill him.

  A grim game indeed.

  Just as Braddock reached the woods, he stumbled and fell and smashed face first into the snowy ground. Furious with himself, he pushed up and struggled to his feet.

  The world yawed wildly beneath his boots, and he took a knee. His vision tightened, going black at the edges, and he knew he was close to losing consciousness.

  Then he saw the bird woman just inside the forest, tottering to her feet and turning to look back at him. Her abdomen wore an apron of bright red blood.

  She couldn’t have been more than twenty yards away, but Braddock’s failing vision made her look as if she was standing at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

  He holstered the six-shooter, knowing he’d likely gotten snow in the muzzle when he’d fallen, and reached awkwardly across his body, trying to pull his other pistol.

  The bird woman considered him for a brief second, and her voice spoke in his head, but Braddock’s muddled mind, raging against unconsciousness, couldn’t make out the words.

  He struggled up, pulled the six-shooter, and lurched forward.

  The bird woman hopped into the air and flew off through the evergreens, a white blur snapping through small branches as it receded into the gloom and disappeared.

  Braddock fired then fell back on his rump and fought hard against the curtain of darkness settling over his consciousness. His own brain betrayed him, whispering softly that it was time to sleep, but Braddock knew that if he didn’t fend off unconsciousness, he would surely bleed out.

  Suddenly, he was cold, so very cold.

  Dropping his revolver, he slipped his good hand into his jacket, fumbling with stiff fingers until he located the tiny pouch he always carried in his shirt pocket.

  He tried to pull it free, fumbled, wavered dizzily, then came roaring back and yanked it from his shredded coat.

  His hand shook badly. He pinched the tiny leafy bladder as hard as he could with his numb fingers and raised it to his chattering teeth, then tore it open and poured the contents into his mouth.

  The flavor was sweet and green, like summer clover, and as soon as it hit his tongue, his consciousness surged.

  Returning to lucidity had its price. For a brief moment, it was no longer possible to ignore the pain, the towering mountains of which exploded like so many volcanoes.

  Braddock gasped and sputtered and fell back onto the snow. But a second later, the eruptions ceased, and the pain ebbed to mere agony.

  He lay there, breathing hard, his vision clearing, feeling his body knit itself back together. It was a strange sensation, feeling wounds close, and stranger still to feel his forearm straighten as the snapped bones fused together again. Then his arm sucked back into its socket, and his shoulder glowed with warmth as the torn tendons and ligaments reknitted themselves and tightened, pulling everything firmly back into place.

  When it was over, Braddock rose and just stood there for several seconds, testing his balance and assessing his condition.

  The pain was dull now, and it seemed his wounds had healed. His shaking had died down to a minor tremor, and the numbness had vanished, but he remained cold and a little lightheaded.

  When Braddock finally felt confident that he could walk without losing consciousness, he removed his ruined snowshoes, cleared and holstered his pistols, and searched the forest until he found his Bowie knife. Seeing the heavy blood around it, he smiled with satisfaction.

  Then he retraced his steps and picked up his things and started trudging through the snow back to where the buckskin was picketed.

  With every step, he scanned for signs of the bird woman and replayed the attack in his mind.

  What was she?

  He didn’t know, but whatever she was, she was fast and deadly.

  Her initial attack had struck his back and shoulders, and her beak had seized not his neck but the thick, upturned collar of his jacket. Otherwise, that initial bite and tremendous twist would have killed him instantly.

  But she hadn’t killed him.

  He didn’t think his parting shot had hit her, but judging by that apron of blood, he reckoned the bowie knife to the gut had killed her. She just didn’t know it yet.

  Good riddance.

  When he reached the buckskin, the mustang snorted at the blood and nuzzled into Braddock gently.

  Braddock pulled up the picket, feeling a bit stronger, and took a long swallow from the canteen. Mounting up hurt a bit, but his consciousness didn’t waver.

  His stowed the bow, pulled the Henry from its boot, stripped the glove once more from his shooting hand, and rode with the rifle across the saddle.

  The wind picked up, and it started snowing ag
ain.

  Braddock didn’t like the looks of that snow. The flakes were small and steady.

  After a brief hesitation, he rode back to the doe. Continuously checking his condition, he used his knife and tomahawk to butcher the meat. It was a rough and wasteful job, and he inadvertently ruined the hide, but that was okay.

  They needed the meat.

  Braddock kept looking up from the butchering in case the crazy bird woman came back for round two.

  The whole time, snow fell harder.

  When he finished, he rested and drank water and talked to the buckskin, telling him what they had to do.

  Much of the cold had left Braddock’s body, but he was stiff and shaking a little again, and the pain smoldered on, bearable but troubling.

  He couldn’t help but wonder if the bird woman’s talons, like the claws of mountain lions, were poisonous with rotten meat. If so, Braddock might be in trouble because the wounds had sealed themselves.

  Just thinking about it made the scarred flesh itch and burn.

  Oh well. There was nothing to do about it now. He would talk to Philia when he got home.

  The wind blew harder. To the west, the normally long views were muddled with weather, the neighboring mountains reduced to indistinct shadows by falling snow.

  Blinking flakes from his lashes, Braddock pulled his fur cap low and tied the quartered haunches with some of Tilly’s cordage and slung them over the mustang’s back like a pair of bad men with bounties on their heads.

  When Braddock climbed into the saddle again, the world went watery. It was a slight and momentary thing, but he couldn’t ignore it.

  Making matters worse, it was starting to snow harder.

  With rifle at the ready, Braddock turned south and patted the stallion’s muscular neck.

  “Take me home, boy.”

  32

  He rode between the peaks and started across the ridge, giving the canyon wide berth. Otherwise, with it snowing so hard, they might step straight into the void.

  By the time Braddock reached the meadow, several inches of new snow already lay on the ground.

  He paused at the edge of the forest, where the cattle lay beneath some spruce, and used his tomahawk to chop through the ice of the stream they used.