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

by Taylor, Jordan

  Boyd looks skyward and Adair follows his gaze.

  “Rain approaches. The makers will be glad. Enjoy your time in Monument, miss.”

  They tip their hats and depart, Boyd glancing back at Ivy once as he says something to his brother from the corner of his mouth.

  Face still burning, Ivy slips into the telegraph office, inquires about prices without hearing the answers, then waits a few minutes before hurrying back up Canyon Street to the hotel.

  On the third floor of The Copper Key, she finds her and Rosalía’s room empty and no answer to her knock at Sam and Melchior’s door. She even tries Grip’s with no result. Hands thrust into duster pockets, Ivy paces the floor of their bedroom from window to door. Inside the pocket, she holds the lake-smoothed arrowhead, running her thumb up and down the flat.

  Can they all have gone on as if nothing happened? Could they not hear? They were just down the stable alley. Melchior may be foolish enough not to hide from those men, but surely Sam would keep him away. Assuming they know, where are they? What if they did not leave the stable fast enough and ran into the brothers on their return from the post office? What if they are even now pacing off, herself the only member of the party absent?

  Ivy shudders. Releasing the flint in her pocket, she jogs downstairs, turns a landing corner, and runs into Sam.

  Ivy jumps back as he trips down a step into Melchior, who catches his arm.

  “Ivy—”

  “You’re all right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “They did not see you? Quick—” Ivy waves them up to her room.

  Sam would never have entered her hotel room a few months before. But, as with so many details of their lives, that was a few months before.

  “You should remain in the hotel,” Ivy says, breathless as she closes the door. “In your room. Perhaps they will not be in town long.”

  “Been here a week and another booked,” Melchior says. “Swagger they’re waiting for something or someone. Same as they waited for us in Santa Fé.”

  “How do you know?” Ivy asks.

  He stalks to the window to look out, his jingling spurs muted on thick carpet.

  “We made inquiries while you led them away for us,” Sam says. He stands in the middle of the room, hands at his sides, back stiff.

  “Sit down.” Ivy indicates the writing desk and chair, sure he will not sit on the edge of a bed. “Please. How were you able to learn that?”

  “Toulouse,” Melchior says.

  “Who? Our young host?”

  “Hair rich calling anyone young?” Melchior looks around at her.

  “You are two years older than me. If—”

  “Three. Born in fifty-nine. Turn twenty next month.”

  “I do not believe the man’s age is relevant to the issue at hand,” Sam murmurs as he pulls out the chair.

  “Whole patch’s a dull ax,” Melchior says. “Ain’t hiding like we’re the bandits.”

  “I wish we did not have to, of course,” Sam says. “But I also wish you and I to see another sunrise.”

  “Wish in one hand, spit in the other, see which fills faster. Something’s got to—”

  “Melchior,” Ivy says. “You do not honestly want to face them? They almost killed Grip and he can draw and fire twice as fast as you.”

  “The hell? Going around with your eyes shut?”

  “Mel—” Sam stands up.

  “It’s true,” Ivy says.

  “Sard kind of place did you learn numbers in that Big City?” Melchior’s tone grows more hostile by the word. “‘Twice’ as fast and ‘two’ years? Only three months shy of three years older and shoot faster than—”

  “Perhaps I should have said ‘accurately,’ We are only trying to save your life. Tell me with a straight face you think you can draw faster than the Gordons.”

  “Been mixing with that bounty hunter a heap too much. Train to start on Colts next?” Melchior is almost shouting. “Know how often I miss what I aim for? Count on one hand—”

  “You just wasted half your chamber shooting at something you couldn’t hit two days ago. If you are such a sensible marksmen—”

  “Keep planning to play the gallery every sarding time trouble roosts? Think you can show us how to do better?”

  Sam steps between them, facing Melchior, close.

  “Do not raise your voice to her,” he says softly, each word distinct.

  Melchior glares past him at Ivy, both of them breathing hard, then turns away to face the window. He presses his palms into the ledge.

  “What’d you want us to do?” Tone lowered to a mumble, Ivy is unsure whom he addresses. “Keep offish the whole time we’re in Monument? Not saying we can make a mash on the ABCs, but ain’t comfortable with the hang fire on something that’s got to be met. They’ve their backs up, hardly shinning in a hurry. Snails rather call to get the bulge if there’s chance; else every day running risk on being dry gulched.”

  Dejectedly, Melchior looks up at Sam, then past him to Ivy. Back to Sam, again to Ivy. “What?”

  Ivy shakes her head, sinking back to sit on the edge of a bed. “I only ... wish you would speak English. Spanish even. One or the other would be helpful, I’m sure.”

  Melchior frowns. He looks at Sam. “Not sounding clear to you?”

  Sam rubs his temples. “You would prefer to address the issue now, rather than running from it to risk finding ourselves worse off in the end?”

  “Sure.” He glares at Ivy. “Sam’s twigging.”

  “Isn’t Sam brilliant? Try this one: if you face them now, you will die. If you put it off, you may never have to face them. They could forget. They could ride somewhere else. They could be washed away in a flood, struck by lightning, bitten by risers, and eaten by buffalo in the same half-hour period. Then, we wouldn’t have to worry about them anymore. Stranger and more horrible things happen out here.”

  Melchior is scowling, talking under his breath. “Buffalo only eat grass.”

  “You must be able to see you cannot beat them in a duel. I do not say you cannot shoot or draw fast or you do not know your business, nor will you ever hear me say that. I know you know how to handle yourself and a revolver. But you cannot compete with them. They’re famous for it. And you only have one chance to demonstrate you cannot compete. After that ... it doesn’t matter about pride or skill or speed, does it?” Ivy presses her fingers into the coverlet, looking at the floor.

  “Can’t just skin out from a fight,” Melchior says. “Can’t hide while you all scout Monument.”

  “You should consider giving it a try.” Ivy looks up. “For today even? Perhaps we can come up with something. Rosalía wanted to see some canyon called the Kaibab. We could ride out a few days and return.”

  “Kaibab’s only a day out,” Melchior says.

  “Just give us a minute before you run out to introduce yourself.”

  Melchior scuffs carpet with the pointed toe of his boot, thumbs tucked into his belt.

  “The show.” Ivy almost gasps the words.

  Sam and Melchior look around at her.

  “There is some sort of event in town. Adair told me. We could go and—”

  The door bangs open. Rosalía jumps when she sees them all in there, herself panting and looking more distressed than Melchior or Sam about their mounting risk of death.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Have any of you seen Grip?”

  “Not since we left the stable,” Sam says.

  “What is it?” Ivy asks. “Did you run into the ABCs?”

  “I thought I saw—no. What happened with them, Ivy?”

  But Ivy shakes her head, feeling bewildered on top of everything else now. “It seems they are also staying at The Copper Key. But we may be able to avoid them. What happened to you? Why are you upset?”

  “I’m fine.” Rosalía crosses to the second window to look out.

  Sam tries to offer her the chair.

  Looking for Grip? Why?

  “What�
�s the show?” Melchior asks Ivy.

  “What show?”

  He rests a hand on his hip. “Asking me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. All I know is, the way he said it, they will not be attending. Perhaps we can stay away from the brothers and still get through some of town.”

  “Toulouse will know about it.”

  “Rose? Are you sure you’re all right? Will you come with us?”

  She drags her gaze from the street below to assure Ivy she is fine, though their eyes hardly meet before she is looking out again.

  Determined Melchior and Sam should not be roaming the hotel, Ivy scouts the lobby herself and asks at the front desk about local events. Ten minutes later, the four of them slip out the back door through the dining room like burglars, on their way to the sideshow.

  Sixty-Sixth

  Freaks

  “Always wanted to see a freak show. Reckon they’ve got the Apewoman?”

  “Are you referring to poor Julia Pastrana?”

  “It had a name?” Melchior looks around from the small queue before them at the ticket office, raising his voice over hawkers drawing attention to the show.

  “She died twenty years ago,” Ivy says, “and exhibiting human beings with out of the ordinary medical complaints is as ignorant as it is—”

  “Your idea to shift here!”

  “Our hostess said it was mostly talent exhibitions and spiritualists. All their advertising looks like rare diseases and tricks to lure the gullible.”

  Melchior rolls his eyes. “What spiritualists are.”

  “Those wretched people should not be subjected to such treatment. Like beasts in a zoological garden.”

  “Ivy, it is a legitimate means for these people to earn a living,” Sam says, though his attention seems focused on the crowd around them. “How else could they?”

  “You as well? They should be undergoing treatment and overcoming their condition before worrying about such matters. The scientific community could compensate them for their time.”

  “’Spect some freaks don’t aim to ‘overcome their condition.’ Who they are, ain’t it? Make a dandy living by sitting around. Who’s to say they’re after ‘treatment’?”

  “These shows should be raising funds for medical awareness and research then.” Ivy watches a young woman in a yellow gothic dress with enough feathers in her hair to stuff a pillow and enough brass on her bodice to rivet a steamer as she passes out stage cards.

  “When I was a boy, Angus Muckaskill and General Tom Thumb were still on,” Melchior says, his own gaze following a chained monkey hanging upside down from the tent awning over the ticket man. “Never got to see them. Heard he was eight feet tall.”

  The monkey sticks its tongue out at them, making Melchior grin. Feather-hair shoves a stage card with lurid paintings of two-headed men and bearded women in his face.

  “Have you heard about our Hall of Human Curiosity, ladies and gentleman? Have you experienced the thrill of the Viper Man? Half-man, half-snake, he will astound with every twist and turn. Or be bedazzled by Mr. Sebastian Pneuma. Witness the world-famous spiritualist who holds council with the dead.”

  “Magic lantern show!” a man, also clad in yellow, shouts from a nearby tent as the woman moves on. “Be amazed, be astounded! Watch pictures move!”

  “Miss Ruiz?” Sam glances to Rosalía beside him. “You were looking for Grip?”

  Ivy follows his gaze to see Grip, not in the sideshow crowd, but stepping from a narrow alley. He walks to the next corner and looks along it, then up the opposite road toward Canyon Street.

  “Who is he searching for?” Ivy asks. “The ABCs?”

  “That cur?” Melchior suggests. “Haven’t seen it again.” He reaches the ticket man’s counter and fishes in his pocket. “Four.”

  “Two dollars.”

  Melchior laughs. “Starting entertainment early?”

  “Rose, did you say you saw someone you wished to tell Grip about?” Ivy asks.

  Rosalía, who has said nothing since they left The Copper Key, shakes her head, watching Grip.

  The ticket man, below a violently yellow suit and hat adorned in stuffed chipmunks, also dyed yellow and with scarlet glass eyes, grins back at Melchior. “Glad to be of service, sir. Fifty cents a head. That will be two dollars.”

  “Sard it is.”

  Sam rests his hand on Melchior’s forearm. “There are four of us. Might you offer a group discount?”

  The monkey reaches for glinting sungoggles on Melchior’s hat. Failing there, it catches his hat brim.

  “Family rate starts at five. Half price on young bits. Any children?”

  “What’s the discount if we’ve five?” Melchior asks.

  The monkey, though smaller than the hat, yanks it off his head. It buffets the ticket man before Melchior catches it. Upside down, the monkey draws back its lips to jeer in Melchior’s face.

  “Twenty percent. Bring eight and we’ll shift you to executives. Thirty percent off and a free peek at the man-eating chicken.”

  “How much for the monkey?” Melchior replaces his hat on his head. He reaches up to let the primate grasp his fingers with its tiny fists.

  Ivy, who had turned to beckon Grip, looks around. “You expect people to pay to see a man eating chicken?”

  The ticket man appears taken aback. “Ever seen a man-eating chicken before?”

  “Of course. They were eating chicken last night in our dining room.”

  The monkey will not relinquish his hand, so Melchior unclips the chain on its studded leather harness. It leaps on top of his hat and attempts to pry the reflective sungoggles loose.

  “Ah.” The man reaches over his counter for the monkey’s harness. “You are referring to a man who is eating chicken, miss.”

  “Yes?”

  “I am referring to a man-eating chicken.”

  “Yes?”

  He opens and closes his mouth. The monkey bites his thumb and he jumps back, shaking his hand.

  “What are you doing here?” Grip has stepped up beside them, hat pulled low. “I supposed you still practiced at least occasional self-preservation. Mr. L’Heureux, are you aware there is an animal on your face?”

  The monkey has wrapped its remarkably long tail all the way around Melchior’s head, just below his nose. It chatters all the time as it yanks at the goggles. One hand on the tail, the other on the round head, Melchior tries to lift it off. It takes the sungoggles along.

  “I recommended we visit the show,” Ivy says. “Adair implied it was a place the two were avoiding. Would you like to see it?”

  Grip shifts his glare to her. “Because you need someone to pay?”

  “Actually, if we have five we get twenty percent off.”

  “You should be in your rooms.” To her surprise, Grip reaches in a pocket as he speaks. He hands a half-eagle five dollar gold coin to the man, glancing once more around them. “You are acquainted with the practice of charging much more to get out than to get in at these spectacles?”

  “Ever see the Apewoman?” Melchior asks Grip thickly, the monkey’s tail still across his nose.

  “I just told you,” Ivy says, “she died ages ago.”

  “Likely others.” He finally manages to hold the monkey out to the ticket man, who clips the chain in place. “Got any baboon women?”

  The monkey clutches the canvas awning with its feet, hanging on as Melchior tries to twist his goggles from its fist.

  “A marvelous array of the strange and heart-stopping will thrill and delight, repulse and beguile in equal measure, sir.” He grabs the monkey’s tail and yanks the animal back, tearing it free from goggles and awning. Rather than crashing to the floor, the monkey catches the man’s shoulder as it flies past and perches there, still chattering and making faces at Melchior.

  The yellow-suited man passes the tickets out, then hands over three paper national bank notes to Grip.

  Grip does not stir to receive the money, his gaze shifting
from the grubby paper to the man’s face. “Are you attempting humor?”

  “Thought he was our first act,” Melchior says, also scowling at the paper. “But meant all down.”

  “You will find Monument fully integrated into the Eastern use of bills and the national notes one hundred percent genuine, sir. You may redeem them within our tents and exhibits as well as at any establishment within Monument for full value against gold.” The beaming man still holds out the paper notes while the monkey tries to tug a gold button off his jacket.

  Grip fixes his unblinking challenge stare on the eyes below the yellow hat and does not move or speak.

  The man glances at the bills, at the counter he faces, at the monkey, at Grip, at the bills, and back to the counter.

  Grip does not move.

  Rosalía sighs.

  “However, you may prefer your change in silver, sir?” Still smiling, the man withdraws the national bank notes and offers three silver dollars which the monkey makes a grab for.

  Grip takes the coins without comment.

  “Enjoy your visit and prepare to be amazed, ladies and gentleman!” The man gives them a little bow, lifting his chipmunk-adorned hat as they step past.

  The monkey claps and grins.

  “Who were you looking for?” Ivy asks. “Did you see the Gordons out here?”

  They are on the edge of the city, where buildings are one and two stories and the sideshow has set up long rows of tents around the main canvas exhibit hall.

  “The dog,” Grip says, still looking around.

  Melchior smirks at her.

  “Oh.” Ivy is about to ask why when another yellow-clad man greets them at the first entrance.

  He bombards them with a whirlwind of explanations regarding the Hall of Human Curiosity, the Terrifying Reality of Spiritualists, and the Gates to the Impossible, all of which they must see before they go.

  Tattooed white men and a tattooed woman, remarkable “new” inventions like electric candles and gramophones, a woman walking on swords, a panting tiger turning in a cage, a few more monkeys, and they already seem to have run out of spectacles included in admission.

  Rosalía is fascinated by the inventions, while Melchior shoves children out of the way so he can reach the tiger. Sam asks Grip what he thinks should be done about the ABC situation, but Ivy can catch no more of the conversation in the hot, noisy tents as she also watches the tiger.