And where were the Andersons’ transports? They had a wagon; they had to at least have one hauler. Indians wouldn’t touch the transports, from what he’d been told; they were as cautious with the entrapped energies as any other sane people. On the west side of the little homestead, he found plate-sized hauler tracks and followed them south until they were lost in the rocks. There were smudges in the soil and underbrush, evidence that someone had walked along with the construct, leading it presumably, but Caleb was no tracker and could tell no more than that.
If they could find the construct, they could prove ownership by matching up the registration marks, but until that time, it was well and truly lost.
He debated for a long moment on summoning Ernst, and finally decided to leave his familiar where he was. He’d never seen an Indian raid site before, and perhaps the information he’d been given in the east was faulty. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
A bird called somewhere above him, the first sound of forest life he’d heard since entering the trees. Another answered it, directly to the south. It dawned on Caleb that he’d left the homestead behind in his search, so much that he could no longer hear the men’s voices behind him. The bird called again, to his right this time. Two careful notes, low then high, as if the creature were questioning.
And he knew, suddenly, that it was questioning. It was a signal, asking what to do about him, the stupid white man all on his own in the wilderness. Caleb froze, waiting for the answer. The forest was eerily silent and seemed to hold its breath along with him.
They were watching him. He could feel their eyes on him, imagined he could hear the hum of bowstrings held taut. From the south, the bird called again, the same two notes. “Low-high?” The nearer one answered with a cheery trill: “High-low-high!”
The runes on his staff flared to life as he channeled into it, markings of blue glowing against the dark wood. They provided a path, forcing the chaotic power into patterns, logical forms that could be used with exquisitely fine control. “Schild.”
Like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place, the air around him solidified into a shield, crystal clear and impenetrable. Only the sight of a few bushes curling their branches against an unseen surface indicated where the boundaries of his bubble were. His breath sounded tinny, as if his head were inside a large jar, and he knew he had a limited amount of time before his air ran out. Impenetrable meant that nothing got in, not even air.
Something moved to his left, and he snapped his head in that direction.
She sat not ten yards distant on the back of a painted horse, the animal’s brown and white markings seeming to be a pattern cast by the leaf-dappled sunshine. The large beast snorted softly, its nostrils fluttering as it tossed its head. Caleb saw that it had one blue eye and one brown, and it eyed him with the same mild curiosity as its rider. The Indian woman’s raven hair was twined into twin braids, hanging forward on each side of her neck, and her garments were clearly of tanned hides, decorated in subtle patterns with yellow and green quills. Her black eyes held no animosity as she stared at him, her head tilted slightly to one side.
Caleb stared at her, the first native he’d ever seen in person. He could see her tanned legs, bare between her high moccasins and the hem of her dress, muscled and strong. No white woman he’d ever seen would ride astride, much less with her skirts hiked up above her knees, but it seemed natural here in this wild place. Her hands were clenched in the horse’s mane, and the animal’s ears were perked forward, obviously waiting for some command from its rider. Where the sun touched her face, her skin glowed like warm honey.
They gazed at each other for long silent moments, two worlds touching for perhaps the first time. She didn’t seem angry, or even afraid, merely cautious. And the longer he looked, the more a glint of humor crept into her dark eyes. She found him amusing.
Abruptly, her head jerked up, and she stared over Caleb’s head in the direction of the Anderson homestead. A heartbeat later, he heard the voices, too.
“Peacemaker?”
“Agent Marcus?”
They had come looking for him, finally.
The southern bird called again, the question taking on an imperative tone. “Low-high?”
The Indian woman hesitated for one moment, glancing between Caleb and his would-be rescuers, and something in Caleb’s chest clenched. Go! Don’t let them find you here! Almost as if she heard him, she pursed her lips, whistling an answer. “High-low-low.” Nudging the horse with her knees, she backed it into the underbrush and disappeared.
Almost belatedly, Caleb remembered to dismiss his shield, letting the power trickle through the length of his staff into the ground beneath him. He could feel the spits and sparks of it die out abruptly, snuffed to nothing somewhere in the soil. There was nullstone in the mountains then, the chalky rock that could absorb and still any amount of power. It was far enough from the surface that it hadn’t hampered his abilities, but it was there nonetheless.
“Agent Marcus? Can you hear us?” They were getting closer. Caleb could hear several men crashing through the bushes, no doubt obliterating the tracks he’d so carefully followed to this spot.
“Yes! I’m here!” He glanced one last time to the tree where the Indian woman had sat watching him, but there was nothing to show she’d ever been there. Turning, he began the climb back up the hill.
They were townsfolk, not Warner’s men. Jack and Peter were very happy to see him, both of them eyeing the trees around as if they expected an entire tribe of Dog Soldiers to come barreling down on them at any moment.
“You shouldn’t wander off like that, Agent Marcus, not alone. The reds are all over this territory. I heard they can call down rockslides and flash floods to knock you clear off the mountain if they want.”
Caleb allowed them to herd him back toward the homestead and the safety of numbers, but his mind was on the woman and the simple curiosity in her dark eyes. He had the distinct feeling that he’d been weighed and measured somehow. Had he passed whatever test she’d imposed on him? Oh, Ernst, how I wish you’d have seen her.
“Ah, there you are Agent Marcus!” Warner and his men were already mounted, and Caleb was certain they’d have gladly left without him if not for the townsfolk’s insistence. “We were starting to get worried.”
“No worries. I was just doing a little scouting of my own.” He pointed in the vague direction he’d taken, hoping that no one would investigate. “I think they took the hauler toward the south, but I lost the trail in the rocks.”
Warner smirked. “Then let us hope they blow themselves to kingdom come with it. It’s no less than they deserve for terrorizing good and decent people like this.” He walked his transport to the head of the column that had formed, and Caleb found his own mount now hitched to the Andersons’ wagon. “I hope you don’t mind, but since we had a hauler, I thought we could take more of their belongings if we used the wagon.”
“No, not at all. I’d have suggested the same.” He clambered into the wagon, settling his staff in the seat beside him. Driving the contraption was far preferable to riding the huge hauler. “Back to town?”
“The Andersons were going to be taken to my place, and I’ve offered to feed the men lunch for their efforts today, as well.” Warner smiled, smoothing his mustache. “That includes you, of course.”
“A meal would be much appreciated. Thank you.” And he could get a look at the nearly fabled Warner ranch.
As they slowly made their way back down to the plains, Caleb almost felt guilty for taking such an instant dislike to Abel Warner without just cause. The man obviously went out of his way to help the people of Hope in their dire straits. But the tiny voice in the back of Caleb’s mind warned him to listen to his instincts and Ernst’s. Something was not as it seemed.
A cool breeze followed them out of the mountains, as if the land itself breathed a sigh of relief
at their departure.
Chapter 4
The Warner place was actually the A-bar-W Ranch, as seen branded into the flanks of the grazing cattle they passed. The herd was carefully watched by a pair of armed men on transports who waved as the small procession rumbled past.
The ranch was nearly a town unto itself, surrounded by a fence of tightly stretched wire. Approximately every ten yards or so, another armed guard stood, and the blue arc of power could be seen hopping from fence post to fence post, powered by the men stationed at each one. An arcane-powered fence. Interesting.
The house was a sprawling two-story construction, ringed all the way around with a covered porch and many high windows. As they rode in, Caleb noted which windows contained dark shadows, the silhouettes of yet more armed guards. He added those to his mental tally of Warner’s men, feeling more uneasy as the count continued to climb. Why on earth did Warner need this many men, and a trained sniper on top of that?
Schmidt disappeared the moment they arrived, and the Peacemaker spent the rest of the visit feeling the skin crawl across his shoulders. Somehow it was worse that the silent man hadn’t even acknowledged Caleb’s existence. Was he truly beneath the hired killer’s notice, or was Schmidt just biding his time? Or awaiting his master’s orders?
There were several outbuildings in sight, a smokehouse—so noted because of the fragrant aroma emanating from it—and a large building with metal pipes extending from its sides, clearly the housing for the pump that drew water for the entire community. People came and went in the dusty lanes, going about the daily tasks of running a large cattle ranch. Caleb recognized only a few of them from town; the rest were obviously permanent residents of the A-bar-W. Transports were scattered all over, everything from fleet one-person rides to massive haulers twice as tall and broad as the one Caleb rode. It was easy to pick out the smithy, a line of partially dismantled constructs ringing a forge of glowing blue coals.
A small pack of bluetick coonhounds came boiling into the yard from their kennels with sharp baying cries until Warner spoke a single word, then they nearly tripped on themselves to fawn over him. Warner was clearly king of his own domain out here.
Shepherded by a severe-looking man with pince-nez eyeglasses perched at the end of his long beak, a passel of children paused to let the wagon by. The schoolmaster, if Caleb had to guess, and the majority of Hope’s children. They ranged in age from nearly seven to twelve, which stood to reason since older children would be helping with family businesses during the day. To a one, they kept their eyes turned down,oddly subdued for children so young. Caleb turned in his seat to watch them until they rounded a building out of his line of sight.
Allen Anderson and his wife were waiting on the house steps when Caleb brought the wagon to a halt in front of them. The woman’s eyes lit up seeing the load of their belongings the party had managed to salvage. “Oh, thank you, Abel!”
Warner dismounted to receive a hug from Mrs. Anderson, patting her back soothingly. “It’s the least I could do, Lily. We got as much as we could haul, thanks to Agent Marcus’s mount.”
That earned Caleb a teary hug and kiss on the cheek, too. “Bless you, Agent Marcus. Just . . . bless you. You and that furry angel with antlers.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. Ernst as an angel? “Is he still with the children?”
She shook her head, patting loose tendrils of hair back into place to compose herself. “He left as we arrived here. I assumed he’d gone to you. Is he all right?”
“I’m sure he is. He often goes wherever his whim takes him.” Inwardly, Caleb regretted the lack of his familiar. He could have used Ernst’s eyes and ears here. He reached out along the connection that bound him to the creature and felt distance between them. Ernst had returned to Hope, he’d wager, and he let the bond go without summoning him. If Ernst didn’t want to be here, Caleb wasn’t going to push without reason.
Lunch was to be served on the veranda, in the meager bit of coolness the shade offered. Above them, a large fan creaked back and forth, powered by arcane pulses from the touch of the servant standing unobtrusively against the wall.
Their vantage overlooked a large man-made pond which, Warner assured him, held the area’s best catfish. “Around dusk, you can watch the eagles swoop over the water and snatch up the fish that come to the surface. Magnificent.”
“It’s a wonder that the drought hasn’t turned it into a baked mud hole like the rest of the prairie.”
“Well, it’s a mite smaller than it once was; that’s true. But I believe the spring beneath it is strong enough to survive this summer, and when the rains return, it will be back to its former glory.”
While the meal was being prepared, Warner and the other men lounged in chairs, smoking and generally exchanging small talk. Caleb lit his own cigarillo with the whispered word brand and savored the sweet smoke as it curled over his tongue. He felt the moment Warner’s gaze sharpened on him, and inwardly cursed, knowing that the man had caught his use of childish command words.
“So, tell us a bit about yourself, Agent Marcus. You’re from the east if I had to guess.” Warner rocked his chair back on two legs, at ease as he stroked the head of one of his hounds.
“Pennsylvania.” Caleb inhaled slowly, trying to decide how much to say. As little as possible, he ultimately decided, unless he was directly asked. He owed no one an explanation. “I graduated from West Point just in time to join the war. I served in the Union artillery until I was severely injured at the battle of Cold Harbor.” The men made noises of approval. Kansas had, after all, been a Union state. “And after the war ended, I asked for admission into the Peacemakers.”
“This is your first time out west though.” Warner grinned apologetically. “I can tell you’re still not comfortable out here.”
Caleb nodded, chuckling. “It’s true. I’ve only been riding this circuit for about three months. I was assigned to Chicago before, and St. Louis. East of the Mississippi River.”
“Ah, a man of culture.” Warner raised his class of brandy in a small toast. “We could use more of those out here.”
“I’m not certain how cultured I am, but thank you for the assumption.” Caleb raised his glass in return and drank. His contained only water.
“And how do you like our fair state?”
Caleb’s eyes were drawn to the prairie beyond the ranch, its tall grasses burned brown and dry by the unrelenting summer sun. “I think there’s a beauty out here. It feels very raw and primal, like the land itself has a life and will of its own.”
The majority of the men chuckled, but Warner smiled his approval. “I have always felt the same. That’s why I chose this place.”
“Now if we could just get rid of the damn reds!” One of Warner’s men punctuated the complaint with a wad of tobacco juice spit off to the side, and he earned a chorus of agreement from the other men.
“Do you have a lot of trouble out here? This is the deepest into the borderlands I’ve been in the circuit so far.”
“It comes and goes,” the rancher offered. “Things are usually quiet in the winter. No one wants to get out and cause trouble then. The heat has everyone riled up this summer, I’m afraid.” Warner blew perfect smoke rings, watching them rise until they drifted away. “And of course, after the battle up north, no one feels safe anymore. It was a damn shame to lose so many fine men up there.”
“To fallen soldiers, then.” One of the other men raised his glass in a somber toast, and it was answered by the rest. Caleb joined them. He’d lost friends at the Little Bighorn, both dead and scoured.
As they all sat in contemplative silence, a woman rounded the corner of the house. Caleb flinched slightly, certain for a heartbeat that this was the Indian woman from the mountain. But no, this was an older woman, with faint lines showing at the corners of her mouth, though her dark skin was still flawless. Her raven hair was bound up in a
tight bun just above the high collar of her calico dress, and she stood with her back straight and shoulders square. This was a proud woman. Warner grinned at the surprise Caleb could not conceal.
“Agent Marcus, I’d like you to meet Mary Catherine. Once a heathen, she has now found her way to God and lives here at the ranch.”
Caleb rose to his feet and gave a slight bow, much to the amusement of the other men. “Ma’am.” She only stared at him evenly, little expression on her elegant face, then turned her gaze to Warner.
“Cook say lunch soon. Wash up.”
Warner chuckled. “Ah, yes, we’ve been scolded, boys. As you say, Mary Catherine. Thank you.”
The woman walked back the way she’d come. Just once, she glanced back, unseen by Warner and his fellows. Her eyes locked with Caleb’s for a moment, then she was gone. Caleb dragged his attention back to his host.
“Her English is still poor, but several of the men here speak Cheyenne, so we’ve been able to continue her education on the good Lord’s word.”
“You are a kind man to take her in. Not many would have.”
“Well, she wasn’t always here willingly. She was left behind, injured, after a raid. It took us some time to convince her that we merely wanted to help her to heal, and to lead her to the Lord.” Warner pursed his lips thoughtfully. “She tried to escape three times, though she could barely walk, and surely would have died on her own before she could find her own people. Her will is astounding.”
“How did you convince her to stay?”
“Persistence, Agent Marcus.” The rancher smiled. “We overcame her with kindness.”
The little gathering rose as one to go wash up at the water pump. Warner walked at Caleb’s side. “I maintain that a man, or woman, becomes what he makes of himself, Agent Marcus. Accidents of birth can be overcome, if one is simply willing to walk with the Lord. That is why I offer employment to a great many men who were born barren or became scoured through terrible accidents.”
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