by RW Krpoun
“There’s worse things to lose. Sit down and lemme take a look at you.”
“I’m almost out of ammo,” Derek sighed. “How are you doing, Shad?”
“OK on ammo, not so great otherwise.”
The Shootist started, pointing a Colt as a figure appeared through the dust, but caught himself: it was the young woman, leading their horses, Durbin, and two unhappy ponies. “What the hell?”
“She’s an angel,” Derek said dreamily.
“Shut up. Who’re you?” the Shootist demanded as he holstered his weapon, speaking louder than he intended because of the ringing in his ears.
The slender young woman who appeared to be of mixed but predominately Native American blood smiled hesitantly, plain-featured but possessing a lovely smile which exposed perfect teeth. “I am Three-Small-Quails; most just call me Quails. I am a wise woman of the Roman Nose Celts.” Her accent sounded Dutch or German to Shad’s ears.
“Wise woman?” Shad muttered. “She looks to be about twenty.”
“Shamanistic class,” Derek muttered back.
“Where did you find our horses?” Jeff asked as he flipped three healing charms onto Shad.
“They are well-trained; they did not go far.”
“I take it you escaped from the Hobgoblins,” Shad drew each of his Colts in turn, opening the loading gates and spinning the cylinders at half cock to ensure that he had not missed an expended round in the heat of the fight.
“Yes, I saw you coming and ran,” Quails nodded.
“Saw us? You came out of nowhere.”
“Second sight is a class option,” Derek muttered.
“I can…see things,” Quails shrugged, uncomfortable. “I…knew four mighty warriors were coming, men who had killed the durluk the pony-riders were planning to sell me to. I had hoped to reach you in time to alert you, but things did not work out as I had hoped. I am sorry you were injured.”
“Comes with the territory,” Shad said absently, shoving on his shotgun’s tube magazine with his thumb to ensure that it was full. “We won.”
“Your friend was badly hurt.”
“We don’t like him all that much.”
“I heard that,” Fred muttered.
“Good. Next time you’re on point, be ready.”
“Screw you.” Fred heaved himself to a sitting position. “That sucked.”
“Easy,” Jeff cautioned. “Quails patched up your insides, but she didn’t replace all your blood.”
“You can replace blood?” Shad was surprised.
“Some,” Quails nodded.
“Good for you.” The Shootist levered himself to his feet with his shotgun and stood for a moment, still weak from blood loss. “Derek, loot. Quails, pick which pony you want to ride. Jeff, take the halter off the other pony, put the marble and the portfolio on the saddle or the pony itself, and send it on its way.”
The Jinxman grinned. “Clever.”
“I hope so. So far we’ve only been about half-bright. I’m going to find my hat and then take a look at Wellring. We’ll have to lay up at least a day to get our strength back.”
The portfolio Amid had given them described Wellring as ancient ruins of a forgotten civilization; in fact it consisted of a solidly-built stone well of considerable age, a much more recent timber corral with a watering trough, and the remains of a smallish stone building that now consisted of four walls that were relatively intact up to around chest height.
Shad studied the site from the crest of the low rise; other than the elevation he was standing upon, which was a good half-mile from the well, the area was flat grasslands. Nodding to himself he headed back to the others, moving slowly to conserve his flagging strength.
Quails was brushing her captured pony, Fred was asleep, Jeff was cleaning his guns, and Derek was dragging a Hobgoblin saddle blanket loaded with loot over to the others. Shad went to Buttercup for his cleaning gear and boxed ammunition to refill his belt loops.
“So, how does it look?” Jeff asked as the Shootist sat down.
“Like nothing remotely close to the portfolio’s claim. Its official: we’ve been sold a bill of goods.”
“Not really sold,” Derek sat down and started filling his belt loops with cartridges from a pasteboard box. “We were blackmailed.”
“The point is it is proof positive that Cecil’s entire claim is hogwash. Who was Quails supposed to be sold to?”
“The second Death Lord we killed. They like to sacrifice mystic types to amp their powers, apparently. She’s invited us to rest with her people.”
“You trust her?”
“Yeah, within reason. Fred’s in no shape for extended travel, though.”
“We’ll stay here through tomorrow, there’s a defensive position down there. Quails give an idea of how many Hobs are left?”
“Not many.”
Shad frowned at that. “This wasn’t a big group. What are they doing grabbing a wise woman?”
“Quails thinks it was a commission job,” Jeff shrugged. “Seems weird to me, too; according to Quails the nearest sizeable Horde force is at least ten days’ ride from here. Fred mentioned that the Horde is known to have dealings with the Death Lords, so if they had a specific need the Hobs would be inclined to fill it for pay. And as we’ve already seen, those bastards get around.”
“But this was a commission job for the bastard lying by the river about twenty miles in that direction with a .50-90 through his sternum, right? Derek, what loot did you take off him?”
The Alienist tossed aside the empty cartridge box and started sifting through the junk on the blanket. “Some bits and pieces of gold and silver, some stuff I can use to make placet when I get time, and the same detection device and paperwork the other one had. Plus personal field gear, some occult tools of his trade, food, that sort of thing.”
Shad looked back to Jeff. “So what was the payment?”
“Dunno.”
“Another question is what magic he planning to amp up,” Derek observed, tossing aside a piece of Hobgoblin jewelry.
“Its not like she has an expiration date,” Shad shrugged. “Can’t he keep her as a reserve?”
“You saw what she did for the Hobs,” the Alienist pointed out. “You wouldn’t want to drag her around too long. Besides, I bet she has friends coming up her back trail.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Derek,” Jeff shook his head.
“You know what I meant.”
“I know you’re a sick bastard. Show some respect for a lady.”
“Hey,” Derek dumped the contents of a pouch onto the blanket. “Check this out.”
Shad glanced over. “Mushrooms?”
“Yeah.”
“So what?”
“So the Death Lord had about a five-pound sack of these in his gear. Could that be the payment?”
“Hang on to those. When Fred wakes up you can ask him, he has Horde Lore.”
“You know, I’m wondering if the Death Lord wanted to amp up his powers to be ready for us,” Jeff said, reloading his Winchester.
Shad thought about that. “Then why go rushing off to jump us? He could have just waited.”
“Because he didn’t know how close the Hobs were,” Derek pointed out. “We keep forgetting the lack of long-range communications here.”
“True,” Shad admitted.
“We’ve gotten a lot of blessings,” Jeff agreed.
“We’re killing necromancers and people who sacrifice sentient creatures on pyramids,” Shad shrugged. “We’re fighting on the side of the angels on this one.”
“Let’s hope so. I was expecting to be explaining my life choices to Saint Peter when the Hobs broke off and left.”
“That was very close,” Derek nodded. “We almost ended up back home, but not in a good way.”
An hour later the Black Talons made camp in the ruined building next to the well. Shad took the first watch while the others slept the afternoon away. Quails volunteered to tend the
animals, and when she finished she came over to where Shad was sitting on the edge of the well washing his clothes in a canvas bucket.
“You are great warriors, but you speak oddly,” she observed as she sat on the well rim. “I have seen many landsmen, and none talk as you do. Not the sound of your words, but the way you speak of the world around you.”
“We’re from a long ways away,” the Shootist shrugged, twisting the water out of a sock.
“Perhaps that is it. What draws you so far from home?”
“A man took Fred’s child, Fred is the large man who was badly wounded. We had to agree to meet this man and perform a service to get the child back, only now we are learning that the task we agreed to perform is a trap.”
“So now you will go home?”
Shad rubbed soap into a shirt. “No. We’re going to kill the man who summoned us here. Then we’ll go home, assuming we’re still alive.”
“Because this man will attack you again?”
“Well, mainly because he attacked us already,” the Shootist admitted.
Quails looked annoyed. “Men. You will fight for pride, and throw away the entire world for a handful of warm ashes.”
Shad grinned. “It is pride, yes.”
“Pride,” Quails said gloomily. “I had a husband, a very good man. He died fighting Tek, going back for a wounded comrade. Pride made him go back, and pride killed him. His son is three seasons old, and very much like him. Pride may well take him as well when all is said and done.”
“Not all proud men die in battle,” Shad shrugged.
“No, but many do, and the rest lead other proud men into more battles.”
“It’s a tough world.”
“Yes. But many fights can be avoided. You should go home.”
“We should. Fred should, at least. The rest of us aren’t much loss to anyone.”
Quails tossed her hair angrily. “That is the way men talk. There must be women in your lands who hope for good men, but so many good men are also fools. You should go home.” She stood and strode back to the picket line.
“They always have to have the last word,” Shad muttered.
The Black Talons rested the next day as well, performing a few household chores and sleeping as much as they could. Fred especially stayed in his blankets, although he was visibly improved. The Scout did identify the mushrooms as important to Hobgoblin ceremonies and shamanistic rituals.
Jeff was dreaming of Ranger School when Derek slapped the bottom of his boot, snapping him instantly awake. “Company,” the Alienist advised.
Sliding into his clothes Jeff joined Shad at the south wall, still settling his Bulldog holsters. “What’s up?” It was late afternoon, he noted: he had slept longer than he had thought.
“Riders,” the Shootist jerked his thumb towards the south. “It’s the right direction for it to be Quail’s people looking for her, or it could be the Horde looking for a re-match.”
Jeff snorted. “They’ll dance with the devil trying to dig us out of here.”
“No joke. Quails and Derek are bringing the mounts in here just to be safe. Hey, it lives.”
“Bite me,” Fred muttered as he joined the pair. “Let’s see how much rest you need after getting gut-shot.”
“Next level I can create armor charms that last until they’re used,” Jeff slapped the Scout on the shoulder. “No time expiration.”
“Everything is ‘next level’,” Fred muttered.
Quails squealed and clapped her hands as the riders came into view: over a dozen heavily-armed Celts on tired horses. Most appeared to be full-blooded Native Americans, tall strong-featured men for the most part; the rest were mixed-blood but obviously treated equally. Their leader was a grim-faced man who had his face painted half red and half black split down the center and who had clusters of Hobgoblin jawbones slung from his stirrups. He listened impassively while Quails made a lengthy explanation of the situation.
“Fun-loving guy from the looks of things,” Jeff muttered as the Black Talons waited.
“If they share traditions with the Plains Indians, the black means he was the first in a war band to kill a foe, and the red means he is a veteran war leader,” Shad muttered back. “But that’s just a guess. I do notice an absence of coup sticks-I bet these guys have parted with that tradition.”
“What’s with all the decorations painted on his horse?” Derek asked, keeping his voice down.
“Speed, protections-ironically, I bet some of them really work here,” the Shootist whispered. “The stripes across the horses’ nose could mark kills in hand-to-hand combat. At least they did for a couple tribes back on Earth.”
“Well, I don’t need paint to tell me he’s one tough hombre,” Jeff observed. “Did the Indians use stirrups?”
“I don’t know,” Shad admitted.
Quails motioned, and Jeff nudged Shad. “Time for you to meet the man.”
“Me? You’re the face man.”
“He looks like a lunatic so you guys ought to get along fine.”
Sighing, the Shootist walked over to Quails. “Hello.”
“This is Breaks Horns,” the young woman gestured to the Celt, who still had not dismounted. “A great warrior and war leader. Breaks, this is Shad, also a great warrior and war leader.”
Breaks Horns favored the Shootist with a miniscule nod, and the Shootist sketched a brief salute.
“I explained how you rescued me in a great battle,” Quails said nervously as the two men stared at each other. “At great cost to yourselves.”
“Glad to do it,” Shad said shortly.
Breaks Horns invested in another half-inch nod.
Quails sighed and shook her head as the two men continued to stare at each other. “Breaks, I am deeply grateful that you led brave men to come to my rescue, I am always respectful of your position as a war leader for our tribe, and I love and honor you as a niece rightfully should. I know that I am young and a widow, but I am also a Wise Woman and I insist that you cease this warrior display and get off that horse! This man is as much a prideful fool as you are, and I refuse to spend the next hour standing here while the two of you act like bears meeting at a river in springtime!”
Breaks Horns gave Shad a look that said much about bad-tempered women. “That is where you fought?” he gestured with the barrel of his Spencer carbine towards where the buzzards were circling down to land at the carnage from the day before.
“Yeah, we fought on the high ground.”
“We shall go look.” The Celt urged his horse away, followed by all but one of his men.
The only one to remain was a bit older than most, stocky and armed only with a knife, although he was hung about with amulets and pouches. He dismounted and hugged Quails before turning to Shad. “I am Thunder-in-Dreams, a healer. Thank you for rescuing my favorite niece.”
“Glad to do it,” Shad nodded. “Breaks Horns is your brother?”
“He is my younger sibling, much to his chagrin,” Dreams grinned, and his weathered face creased in the manner of a man who smiles often. “I am the first of my family to not be a warrior in many ages. He has not spoken to me in years.”
“Yet you’re riding with him.”
“Within our people healers are allowed much latitude, and I am a very good healer. As is my hot-headed niece, who does not know her place.” Dreams tousled Quails hair affectionately. “She still expects Breaks to act like a human being when in truth his carbine has more personality.”
“Thank you for coming, Uncle,” Quails smiled up at Dreams, tears sparkling in her eyes.
“We would have been here well before dawn, but yesterday afternoon I Saw that you were safe so Breaks spared the horses,” the healer patted her shoulder. “Breaks may be as boring as unseasoned jerky but he knows his business. We would have rescued you had these good men not been handy.”
“I knew you would.” Quails hugged Dreams again.
“You have friends in the Roman Nose people,” Drea
ms told Shad, his breath riffling Quails’ hair. “Come back to our camp and rest; I can see you incurred wounds.”
“Thank you. We would be glad to. I’ll leave you to your niece,” Shad said awkwardly and hastily returned to the other Talons.
“Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” Jeff grinned, and the Shootist flipped him off by way of a reply.
Chapter Twelve
Breaks Horns wasn’t any more chatty when he and his men returned after inspecting the site of the fight; the Celts swiftly set up a primitive camp near the well and most went to sleep after a quick meal, although a few of the younger men came over and talked with Jeff and Derek about the fight.
The next morning both groups set off for the Roman Nose camp, threading their way through herds of buffalo.
“Two or three clans of our people will be assembled by now,” Dreams advised Jeff as they rode along; the healer enjoyed playing cards and was frequently in the Jinxman’s company. “All the clans assemble three times a year, but those gatherings are short because the horse herds quickly graze out the pastures.”
“How many clans are there?” Jeff asked.
“Ten at present. Gatherings of two or three are very common throughout the warm months of the year. During the winter the clans pair up for the winter camps for better defense and to let the young people mingle.”
“How should we behave amongst your people?”
“As yourselves. Beware of gambling-my people are fierce gamblers, and you only have one horse apiece. We will provide you with lodges, and never enter another lodge unless invited. Show respect to married women and complete discretion to unmarried girls, but widows may conduct themselves as they wish, and it is no offense to speak plainly to them, although either a Celt or stranger may get his face slapped for being overbold. Or not-it depends upon the widow; some are more bereaved than others.”
“How does one differentiate between the three?”
“Unmarried girls wear their hair in one or more tight braids while married women wear it is a horsetail or doubled single braid. Or cover it with a hat or kerchief. Widows wear their hair loose, as does Quails, perhaps bound by a ribbon or cord. An unmarried girl answers to her parents, especially her father, a married woman to her husband, but a widow is her own person, and free to speak her mind.”