Lightfall Four: Risk, Rise, Rebel (Lightfall, Book 4)

by Taylor, Jordan

  Fifty-Eighth

  The Pupil

  Ivy formerly studied music and French, world history and geography, art, sewing, mathematics, and managing household accounts. She knew where all the major veins and arteries in the body ran, how to tell the temperature of an oven by holding her hand inside, and which pigments to mix on a palette for any desired shade.

  In her previous life, she enjoyed lessons. Her father believed in the education of young ladies and told her knowledge was a privilege, not a given. Her own curiosity delighted him as much as it frustrated her mother—needlework and running the house, with the occasional social event, could occupy a lady’s time without poking about medical texts or ancient maps. Even so, her mother, like her father, like so many from her former life, were remarkably patient, accepting souls. And Ivy never even knew.

  The sixth time Melchior shouted at her in two days for leaning forward in the saddle when she felt off-balance, rather than leaning back, she jumped off Elsewhere in the livery stable corral and walked away.

  “Riled with me ’cause you’re doing it wrong?” he asked, catching Elsewhere’s bit as the mustang followed Ivy.

  “I’m doing it wrong?” She spun to face them as she reached the gate.

  Elsewhere tossed his head. Melchior scowled, chewing a stick of straw since he usually refrained from smoking in the stable.

  “You are supposed to be teaching me,” Ivy went on. “You tell me one thing, one time, then expect me to do it perfectly every single time after that.”

  “Been riding over a year. Hardly—”

  “I have not ridden like this! I should have thought that would be obvious.”

  “‘I should have thought’ basics might’ve penetrated that skull by now. You sit up in the saddle—not slouch forward like a—”

  “I do not slouch! I’m trying to get used to riding with my knees stuck out at—”

  “If you don’t want to learn, why’d you ask?”

  Then there was Grip. He loaned her his pocket revolver and set up empty cans on a sawhorse at the base of a hill just outside Santa Fé’s protective wall. Speaking around a cigarette as she held her breath, he told her how to load, cock, hold, and aim the weapon. She essentially knew this, having previously used the Colt Lightning without love or success.

  When she nodded and got around to lifting the gun at arm’s length, Grip walked away.

  “Where are you going?” Ivy lowered the weapon.

  “Mr. Chanderton expects me to clean out the row today.”

  “Can it wait half an hour? What about the lesson?”

  “Given.”

  “I have not even fired a shot. What about teaching me to hit something? Isn’t that the important part?”

  He frowned. “You know how to hold and where the trigger lies.”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She lifted the gun once more, Grip behind her, blowing out smoke.

  “Now what?” she asked. “Sight down the barrel?”

  “If such appeals to you.”

  “Should I close one eye, or leave both open?”

  “You’re asking the wrong man.”

  She looked at him. His expression remained blank. She sighted down the barrel, closed her left eye, changed to the right, lined up the nose of the pocket revolver with a can thirty feet away.

  “You’ve already hit,” Grip said.

  She yanked the trigger, remembering too late that she was not supposed to do that. Melchior told her long ago it was a steady squeeze. The explosion of the gun in her face made her jump, muscles tense, breath shallow. She had no clue where the bullet went.

  Grip took a breath, then lowered his cigarette, looking from impervious cans to Ivy. “Why do you fear the weapon?”

  “It is loud. It’s capable of killing me. I do not know where the bullet will go. I have never used it before.”

  He returned the cigarette to his lips before holding his left hand out to her. “Then you should not be using it.”

  Ivy withdrew. “Wait—I am just starting. I will get better and feel more comfortable soon, I’m sure. That is the meaning of lessons.”

  “Relax on your own time. Then return if you wish.”

  “I must use the weapon in order to do that.” Ivy glanced around as she spoke. While shooting inside the city was frowned upon, making a loud noise outside the wall did nothing to ease tensions.

  He still had his hand out. “Ammunition is too laborious to make and in too great demand for you to soothe your nerves with regular discharge of the revolver, Miss Jerinson. The eagle has one chance to learn to fly when it steps from a hundred-foot pine. Adjust your thinking prior to using the weapon. Not after.”

  “How do you expect me to learn to manage it competently without teaching?”

  “How can I teach when you are afraid to learn?”

  “I am not afraid to learn. I am afraid of explosions in my face and being shot. Forgive me for being so weak and worthless and cowardly. I thought you might have a few pointers.” She shoved the gun into his hand and started to the west access door.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  “What?” Ivy paused to look back. “No. Why would I be afraid of you?”

  “Most people are, Miss Jerinson. Men twice your age and strong as mules, packing shotguns and six-shooters. Men who take on bears with knives and brand wild hogs with only a horsehair rope and their own quickness spacing them from death. So you need not call yourself weak or cowardly. Rather, you must adjust your thinking.”

  She looked from his face to the revolver in his hand. “I only ... do not understand it, I suppose. All the more reason I need a teacher.”

  “And your own weapon.”

  With Melchior’s winnings, Ivy was able to purchase the derringer Grip found her from Mr. Abegglen, along with pre-made ammunition. The weapon was pricey, not of an ordinary derringer type: a long-barreled Tinestel Small Arms from Chicago which, according to Mr. Abegglen, had nearly the range and accuracy of a pocket revolver. But the gunsmith’s stock was stripped. And she needed something more substantial—even if the derringer was of revolutionary power.

  It was not until her second, still ineffective, lesson alongside the wall that Ivy recalled firearms scattered on the maker’s workbenches.

  By the end of August, she owned her own Tinestel Enhanced Double Derringer in blued steel and an exquisite weapon from Oliver which he called a four-round. This handgun, in maple, steel, and burnished brass, boasted a rotating chamber like a revolver, but held only four large rounds of heavy gauge ammunition similar to a shotgun. Rather than exploding with shot, the four-round let off an electrical burst upon shattering the shell cap. This, Oliver eagerly explained, was meant to disrupt the brain function of the riser and destroy it, even if a direct hit to the skull failed. Having never tested one on the real thing, he requested her feedback on its effectiveness.

  Though it weighed close to four pounds when loaded, far more even than Melchior’s long Colt, the four-round fit her hand well, the grip feeling smooth and snug in her palm.

  Grip seemed put out when she first met him with the four-round for a lesson.

  “A maker’s gun?” He tensed as he stared at it.

  “Isn’t it beautiful? Oliver practically gave it to me. I promised to report how it did. He made it to combat risers.” Smiling, she turned the weapon in the sun.

  “And rifles were made to ‘combat’ large game,” Grip said.

  Ivy looked up. “I have no intention of shooting this at a human being. Or any other firearm. That’s not what this is about.”

  “Did he not burn his weapon plans?”

  “He’s had this one for months. What do you have against makers? They revolutionized everyday living back East. I only wish there were more here.”

  “Do you?” A raised eyebrow. “And I wish there were none at all.”

  “This city could be gone by now without Oliver’s and Isaiah’s aid. Oliver is a good man.”


  “And ignorant—knowing machines over minds.” Grip turned away, gesturing impatiently toward the cans.

  Of course, she still could not hit anything.

  With her own weapons, she also needed new clothes. She sewed for hours every day, purchased a ready-made man’s duster which she took to bits and remade to fit herself, studied patterns, and stitched a new identity.

  She had some assistance from Rosalía, who offered practical ideas, but Ivy soon found Winter was no more help. She became distraught by the whole idea of the attire and Ivy refrained from mentioning her work afterward. She also overlooked telling Winter that Grip was, in theory, teaching her to shoot.

  While her lessons with Melchior continued in an unpleasant vein, she tried to get Sam to show her how to use a rifle. Rather than hostile or impatient, Sam seemed unwilling to teach her anything. He did not think it proper for her to bother with rifles and shotguns, and told her his Henry repeating rifle was too heavy for her: she could at least use a twenty-gauge “lady’s” shotgun if she must. But Ivy seldom found it difficult to get Sam to do what she wished.

  When he dug in his heels, she asked him to teach her what he had learned in this country about roping and rapid mounts and dismounts. He also gave her pointers on falling off and how to avoid cracking her knee or hip by rolling or landing on her feet. Between this, he did finally introduce her to the rifle.

  He showed her how to hold properly to protect herself from recoil, kneeling as she lined up her target, how to adjust height for range, and how to use the sight. Ivy found shooting the heavy rifle less alarming than she had imagined. Though loud, she felt more comfortable holding with both hands and knowing the nose where the bullet left was feet from her. She certainly took to the rifle faster than to riding or handguns.

  After a session with Sam praising her abilities, Ivy once more faced shooting the oversized derringer with Grip at her shoulder, clearly eager to be somewhere else.

  “You have never taught me to aim with one of these,” she said while reloading after another failed shot. “Do you know, I shot Sam’s rifle today and struck my targets.”

  “If you prefer them, why did you not purchase a rifle?”

  “That is not my point. Why can you not—?” She stopped as a vivid image of a desert cottontail scarcely making ten inches after breaking cover flashed before her eyes. The derringer in her hand, still in her old, abused dress, sweating below September sun, she rounded on him. “You don’t aim, do you?”

  He frowned, seeming to consider the matter as if he had never thought of it before. “I ... do not believe so.”

  “You don’t know?”

  He still appeared unsure what to tell her, but shrugged.

  She held the black derringer out to him, knowing he had never fired it before. “Shoot one of the cans off the sawhorse.”

  He scowled.

  “Please. For my education.”

  Grip took the gun and shot a can. He handed it back to Ivy.

  “You didn’t aim. You scarcely looked at the gun. Much less sighted down.”

  His expression grew even more surly. “Why would you look at the gun? You are not shooting the gun. You are shooting the target.”

  Ivy let out her breath. And she knew. Finally knew what he meant every time she lifted a weapon and he said in an undertone, “You have already hit.”

  “It’s part of you.” She almost sighed the words. “Not a tool. That is why you haven’t been able to explain to me how to aim and sight. It would be like explaining to someone how to ... take a step, or lift a spoon off a table. So ... simple. It’s nothing. It defies explanation. But you have done this for years, a lifetime. I thought I could learn in a few weeks.” She gazed dismally down the makeshift range.

  “It makes a difference?”

  She looked at him.

  “If you know the weapon is a part of you and you know you have already hit.... What more is there to know?”

  Ivy laughed. “You are not considering how long it takes to make something second nature.” She lifted the derringer toward the cans, firing to demonstrate.

  A second went flying off.

  Ivy blinked stupidly several times. She turned to Grip.

  He did not appear surprised, impressed, or congratulatory. He only stood, one knee bent with a foot raised to a rock, watching her.

  “What was that?” Ivy snapped.

  He shrugged. “You laughed.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve never pulled that trigger relaxed before.”

  “Relaxed,” Ivy whispered, looking again toward the target. She let out a breath. “I was not worried I wouldn’t hit it or it would make a loud noise. I just ... shot the can.”

  “On instinct.”

  Ivy turned again, beaming at him.

  But Grip was walking away to the west door.

  “Wait, I still need to learn to draw! And what about reloading quickly?” Ivy sighed, but could not remain outside on her own in case of moving targets. She ran after, smiling, almost laughing again.

  While Ivy sewed and learned, Santa Fé faced tightened belts and growing frustrations from within. After months of sketchy performance, the telegraph and post offices locked their doors. No freighters had come in since July. Cornbread with beans or fried corn tortillas with peppers and beans seemed to make up four meals in five. Some people refused to accept cash for their tomatoes or goat milk any longer, asking instead for wool or bacon or new shoes or labor to fix a damaged roof or fence. With many turning to barter, Ivy found she had even less to offer than before.

  As she was trying on and taking apart a duster and pants which she still could scarcely come to terms with, and losing sleep over finding a horse, she began overhearing rumors of plenty still to be found west in Arizona and California. To avoid misinformation and gain as much insight as possible, Ivy invited Sam, Melchior, Rosalía, and Grip to El Rio one evening.

  They dragged together chairs at a small table in the packed saloon, speaking loudly over the din, eating stewed venison with corn tortillas and pickled onions for a change.

  “Did you see the two riders from Arizona in yesterday?” Ivy asked the table at large.

  “Unofficial dispatch,” Melchior said, scooping onions on a tortilla. “Couple fellows from west with kin here. Said they’d never seen a Plague-sick. To boot, seemed mighty distressed twigging these parts is up the spout.”

  “I heard the same,” Ivy said. “Anyone who has arrived here in the past months from very far either west or south says this is the worst district they have seen.”

  “Wanted protection, now aiming to shift the city?” he asked around a mouthful.

  “What of bringing in freighters from San Francisco?” Ivy asked.

  “Nothing in San Francisco but a bunch of miners.” Melchior shrugged.

  “A port,” Sam said softly. “Any port city has potential.”

  Ivy looked at Grip. “What is the nearest westward city of enough size to be worth visiting for goods and information?”

  Rolling a cigarette on the tabletop, Grip did not look up. After a long pause in which even Melchior watched him, he said, “Monument.”

  Melchior raised his eyebrows.

  She knew the name from geography, but nothing else about it rung a bell.

  “Where is Monument?” Ivy asked.

  “West.” Grip said.

  Rosalía snorted.

  “Thank you.” Ivy sighed.

  “Monument’s hundreds of miles from here,” Melchior said. “Ain’t riding to Monument.”

  “What is the population?” Ivy asked. “Have you been?”

  Grip nodded, sliding the rolled cigarette into his morning coat pocket and starting another. She could not tell if he was considering the matter, or simply resented being summoned to a meeting and asked questions.

  “Twice the size of Santa Fé,” he said at last.

  Ivy sat up. “Is it really?”

  “Plans to run in
a railroad,” Grip said, working deftly at the tobacco and paper. “Major line off the Transcontinental. Monument and Salt Lake City are two of the first stops. Coming in from the West Coast, Monument is a trade hub. Schools there, lawmen....”

  “Why haven’t you mentioned it before?”

  Grip glanced at her. “You never insinuated you had interest in what may exist west of New Mexico Territory, Miss Jerinson.”

  “Monument is near the Kaibab, Ivy,” Rosalía said. “And Tierra Roja, the mining town by the canyon which sprang up with the strike.”

  Ivy was unsure what the Kaibab was, but she had heard of Tierra Roja: a disreputable prospectors’ camp which grew into a town overnight, much like Silver City, San Francisco, and so many others.

  “If Monument is such a hub, a freighter could be organized,” Ivy said. “How long to get there?”

  “Riding alone,” Grip said, “seven days. For you lot? Twenty?”

  “No seas ridículo,” Rosalía snapped.

  Grip recoiled and Ivy suspected Rosalía had kicked him under the table.

  “Less than ten days,” Rosalía said to Ivy.

  “With three or four pack horses this time of year,” Melchior said, rolling a venison taco. “More if we could get them.”

  “Espere.” Grip shook his head, glaring down at the table. “You’re talking bunkum. You wish to ride to Monument on a whim?”

  “I would not say I ‘wish’ to,” Ivy said. “But someone should. What large city lies closer than Monument in a direction we may be reasonably sure is safe to travel?”

  No one answered.

  “What do you think?” Ivy looked at Sam.

  He pushed his nearly full beer glass toward Melchior, who was chewing huge mouthfuls of meat and tortilla as if locked in a cage without food for days, and sat back. “I think we must consider one matter at a time. The goal seems admirable. What is to be gained from waiting in this town for aid which we have no reason to believe will arrive? However, we personally are in no position to go anywhere. We have two horses between three. Then, if we are to avoid starving our mounts on the way, we must acquire pack animals. We must also find and purchase provisions for both humans and horses for a long journey. Are such things to be had in the city these days? Even had we the finances?”