by Anthology
Which had turned out to be a problem, because every year he’d pushed to be promoted to troll chaser. But Pico’d always passed him over, saying good linemen were too hard to find. Peregrine figured it was because of his eye. So he’d scrimped and saved, and he’d just bought Tohcta, his own troll pony. Granted, her muzzle was more gray than blue, but she suited Peregrine; he was going gray at the temples, too.
Simone Hightower tapped her shot glass on the bar and McKay refilled it. “Isn’t that one of Darla Sanchez’s prize roans?” she said.
Peregrine tossed a copper coin on the bar and stepped back. “Was.” He tugged his black, wide-brimmed hat down and faced Simone. “Mine now.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Judgment be damned, Peregrine thought as he headed for the door.
Outside, he pulled Tohcta’s reins from the hitching post and climbed onto her saddle. The pony’s ears twitched as Peregrine turned her away from Bonesteel. She’d grown too old for mountain troll work. But there’d been problems down on the plains, incursions from the Shadowns. He’d make a good living in Cyanide chasing prairie trolls away from the buffalo herds. With a nudge of Peregrine’s heels, the blue roan strode out and they soon passed under Bonesteel’s gray stone arches.
Peregrine sank into the creaking old saddle, tugged down his hat, and took in the view below.
Bonesteel Butte stood over a vast, golden plain, its sloped base covered with thick evergreens up to a clear line where its sides became sheer cliffs. The butte’s pancake top—home to the small town of Bonesteel—covered six square miles and ended in the Judge’s Spire, a great stone pillar as tall as the butte was wide.
Peregrine squinted at the top of the spire where a wisp of black smoke curled from an angry gash that led into that deadly trap. When the winds blew west the town gained a fine coat of greasy soot and the stench of charred carcasses made the residents gag. No trees clung to the sheer stone. And no one passed through the Judge’s Hollow at the pillar’s base. Not voluntarily anyway.
Peregrine looked away. He’d be glad to put some distance between himself and judgment, even if it meant leaving Isabeau.
The trail from Bonesteel was worn and sloped sharply downward, cutting in switchbacks along the butte’s rocky sides. It afforded travelers an expansive view of the Shadowns’ barren canyons, the green plains with roaming buffalo herds stretching forever, and the distant tree-covered Black Hills.
The trip down the butte took a good two hours, plus another hour to pass through the shadowy forest that ringed the butte’s base, so it was after midday when Peregrine and Tohcta emerged from the trees. Peregrine straightened in the saddle. He retrieved a cigarillo from his brown duster’s inner pocket and lit a match off his boot heel. A long drag warmed his lungs.
When he reached Cyanide, he’d head for Stetson Zmiejko’s Black Bar Ranch. Stetson’d promised him a place on his crew as a troll chaser if Peregrine got a pony, and Stetson was a man of his word.
Peregrine glanced over his right shoulder at the thudding of hooves. Six riders were coming up fast. He moved Tohcta off the path to let them pass. But the group reined in their mounts and surrounded him.
Simone Hightower was among them. “We want a word with you, Long.”
“What about?” Peregrine took in her companions: tow-headed Bobby Mack and his stocky brother Beauregard, Matikai with her intense, dark gray stare, Mitchell Fishman whose dark fists were hard and fast, and his former boss, Pico Connolly. All but Pico were troll chasers from the Circle S or Darla Sanchez’s rancho.
Pico spurred his blood bay gelding forward. “You got a bill of sale for that little roan?”
Peregrine’s eyebrows rose. “’Course I do.” He reached into his duster. Six pairs of eyes watched his movements; six hands edged toward holstered guns. “What’s the trouble, Pico?” he asked as he proffered the folded paper.
Pico took the certificate, studied it, and frowned. He passed the paper to Matikai, who was Darla Sanchez’s foreman. She glanced at the bill of sale then crumpled it and threw it at Peregrine. “That ain’t a legitimate bill of sale, Pico.”
“Damn.” Pico shoved up his hat brim and looked at Peregrine from beneath his shaggy, gray brows, a slow, steady gaze that brooked no argument. “The trouble, Peregrine, is that you didn’t buy that pony from Darla.” As he said it, he slid his revolver from its holster, cocked it, and pointed the gun at Peregrine. The other riders mirrored him. “This pony’s stolen and Darla’s dead.”
Peregrine took another long drag on his cigarillo and squinted at the man. “You calling me a thief and a murderer?”
Beauregard hawked and spat then said, “We sure are. You can’t afford a Sanchez roan, and everyone knows how much you’ve been wanting a pony.”
Peregrine ignored the halfwit. “Eight years I worked your lines, Pico. You ever known me to steal, cheat, or hurt anyone who didn’t deserve what I gave ‘em and more?”
Pico shook his head. “The evidence is clear. You’ve got the pony, the forged bill of sale, and the motive.”
“Then I was set up. I bought this pony from Dom Hightower.”
Simone leveled her gun at Peregrine’s chest, and her voice and hand shook as she said, “You saying my brother killed his boss and framed you, Long? You saying he murdered the woman who took my kin and me in when we had nowhere else and no one else?”
Pico held up his hand. “Calm down, Simone.”
Peregrine wouldn’t put it past her to shoot him. “I’m saying I bought this pony from one of Darla’s representatives.”
“Well, Dom ain’t here to defend hisself,” Mitchell lisped.
Peregrine replied, “Then let’s go back to the butte and Simone can get him. He’ll prove that I bought the pony from him.”
“Impossible,” Pico said.
“Why?”
Simone bared her teeth. “Because he’s dead, too, and you know it!”
Matikai grabbed Simone’s shaking hand. “Let the Judge decide if Long’s lying. Let her punish him.”
“The Judge?” Simone looked at Matikai. “Sure.” Her snarl twisted into a vicious grin. “That’d be more than fair.”
Pico bowed his head then nodded, his silver hair flashing in the early spring sun. “All right.” He gestured at Peregrine’s revolver. “Don’t do anything foolish, like reaching for your gun. You just put your hands up.”
Beauregard and Bobby cocked their revolvers as Bobby said, “You may be one of the best shots in Bonesteel, but there’s six of us, Long.”
Beauregard added, “And Simone would welcome an excuse to kill you.”
“You’re punishing an innocent man, Pico,” Peregrine growled. “There’s nothing fair about the Judge, and you know it.” He itched to draw his gun, but Bobby was right—six against one was no winnable fight. He’d have to stay calm, keep his wits. Maybe he could talk some sense into Pico. “You know me better than this.”
Pico took Peregrine’s Colt from its holster and met his gaze with a steady eye. “I know you’ve been grousing for years about not getting a fair chance. And I know you don’t earn enough to buy one of Darla’s ponies.”
“I’m an honest man. You know I’ve been saving my money.”
“I don’t know anything about how you spend your money, Peregrine. I only know what I pay you.”
As Mitchell tied Peregrine’s hands to the saddle horn and Matikai took Tohcta’s reins, Beauregard said, “Ain’t nobody ever trusted you, Long. Nobody.”
They pulled Tohcta around and headed southeast toward Judge’s Hollow at a fast lope.
Peregrine clutched the horn and tried to work his hands free. Facing the Judge was certain death; he’d rather be shot in the back trying to escape than meet her head-on. But though he worked at it, Mitchell’d been a lineman once and knew his knots. By the time they topped the Hollow’s blackened rim, Peregrine’s wrists were raw and bleeding but still firmly tied.
“Simone.” Peregrine looked at the sister of the woman he de
sired. They looked so alike—small-boned, dark-haired, and hardened by a hard childhood. “Did you ask Isabeau if she thinks I’d do a thing like this?”
Simone turned cold brown eyes on him. “Isabeau’s mourning our brother. I ain’t gonna tell her Dom died at her friend’s hands. She’s gonna believe that you left her to chase trolls and a fat wallet, Peregrine. She’s better off without you sniffing around her skirts.”
Beneath him, Tohcta shifted and pawed the ashy trail, and the other horses snorted and pranced. Facing a troll was one thing, but a hungry purple dragon was quite another.
Mitchell loosened Peregrine from the horn and yanked him from the saddle. He hit the ground and curled into a ball as the chasers kicked and pummeled him while Pico held the horses and watched.
Finally Pico called, “Enough. String him up and let’s get out of here before the Judge takes notice.”
Bloodied and squinting through a swollen eye, Peregrine was shoved down the trail to the shadowy, bone-riddled bottom of Judge’s Hollow. The stench of soot, burned tallow, and decaying flesh made him gag. He doubled and vomited while his assailants laughed, their faces covered by bandanas to cut the smell.
Peregrine struggled as they dragged him toward the stand, a charred stump set beneath an equally charred oak tree. He dug his heels in and strained to escape their hold, but Mitchell and Bobby kept a tight grip on his arms. A rope was tossed over a thick branch and a noose tied around his neck as he was made to stand upon the stump. The noose was pulled up until Peregrine stood upon his toes to keep from choking.
“Should we kick the stump, Pico?” Simone’s voice was low and thick. Peregrine squinted at her. Did she have regrets?
“Couse we should,” Beauregard said and the stump rocked beneath Peregrine. “Thieves are presented swinging.”
Peregrine gagged and snuffled, desperate to keep his perch, desperate for air. The stump held. His good eye watered. He wanted to speak, but couldn’t.
“Murderers ain’t.” Pico replied. “Darla and Dom were shot in the back. Let Peregrine see death coming. Leave the stump and summon the Judge, Matikai.”
There was a metal chuck wagon triangle hanging from the oak, someone’s idea of humor. Its sharp, metallic clanging pulsed in Peregrine’s ears.
One knell.
Two knells.
Three knells.
The snort of the ponies. The clatter of hooves.
Soon only the wind groaned through the hollow to join the sounds of Peregrine’s wheezing lungs and the creak of the rope.
And then, from beneath his cramping feet, came a thud. It traveled up his spine and through his bones.
And then another. And Peregrine’s stomach twisted. He gasped a bubbling breath.
The thuds came faster. Harder. Shaking the ground. A heartbeat beneath the butte. A heartbeat that expanded and contracted the mountain itself.
The triangle jangled. The oak creaked.
Thud.
Dust and ash rose.
Thud.
Rocks skittered down the sides of the hollow.
And then there was nothing but the wind and small rockslides clattering, Peregrine’s wheezing.
Now there was scraping, like granite being dragged over ice.
The Hollow’s cool air turned balmy.
Sweat beaded Peregrine’s forehead and lip. It trickled down his back and stung his eyes. He tried to kick the stump away. He closed his good eye and lifted his feet, but the pain, the stretching, the burning made him put his toes back down.
“Damnation.” Peregrine cursed fate and himself. He wanted to live. He wasn’t a thief. He wasn’t a murderer.
“Welcome.”
Peregrine opened his eye to see two great silver eyes in a deep purple, horned face and a mouth full of jagged teeth, each as long as his arm.
The Judge hadn’t uttered the word aloud; rather it pulsed inside Peregrine’s head.
He stared and swallowed.
“You’re strung up like a murderer, Peregrine Long. Are you one?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but couldn’t get a breath past the tightening noose.
With a curved, black claw long enough to run him through, the Judge slashed the rope, and Peregrine hit the ground.
He lay in a pile of bones and soot, sucking in air and coughing out blood.
“Well?”
He sat up. How did she know his name? How did she get inside his head? Why hadn’t she eaten him? He slowly, gingerly shook his head. “No, ma’am,” he rasped. “I ain’t a murderer or a thief. I’ve been accused of a crime I didn’t commit.”
“Really?” The Judge straightened into a sitting position, her long neck curving high above the oak tree. She cocked her massive skull. “I’ve heard that from every murderer and thief I’ve ever judged. What makes your story different?”
“Story?” Peregrine started working on the knots binding his wrists. “I ain’t telling you a story, ma’am. That’s the truth.”
“Hmmm. Peregrine Long, I have only three things that interest me: Solitude, my stomach, and the occasional interesting story. Since you’ve broken my solitude, you’d better tell me a good story, or I’ll put you in my stomach.”
“What happened to judgment?” Peregrine looked over the enormous beast. In the eight years he’d been in Bonesteel, he’d seen the Judge only once as she’d taken flight, circled high overhead, and then set the hills south of the Bonesteel Butte afire.
But close up, she was far larger than he’d perceived; her head alone, encompassed the length of three ponies standing end to end. Her iridescent scales were a purple so deep they looked almost black but showed every hue as she moved, much like the wings of butterflies. She bore three black horns from nose to forehead, and a jagged ruff encircled her neck rising and lowering as her moods changed. She was magnificent and terrifying. But Peregrine never expected to find intelligence within the silvery depths of the Judge’s eyes.
“Judgment comes after your story,” her voice whispered in his mind. “A true story, Peregrine. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“I ain’t a storyteller, Judge. I’m a lineman who just lost his hard-earned chance to become a troll chaser. I bought that pony, fair and legal—had the papers to prove it. And I didn’t murder anyone. I’ve got one friend in the world, but she’ll hear the lie that I’m the monster who killed her older brother, and I’ll have lost her, too.” Peregrine considered the dragon as she lowered her head to take him in. “Honestly, you oughta just end my existence, Judge. No one’s gonna care if I’m dead now.”
The dragon shook her head, kicking up a whorl that raised ash and dust all around Peregrine. “You were doing so well until that last sentence. That one was a lie.”
He finally slipped the ropes free and flexed his bleeding wrists. “I ain’t a liar. I told you the truth.”
“No. You’d care if you died.”
The Judge had emerged from a jagged opening at the base of the stone pillar, though half of her remained within her lair. Peregrine stiffened as the dragon now pulled her entire body free of the cavern. She was as long and powerful as a locomotive pulling four passenger cars.
“You could’ve kicked that stump and snapped your neck, but you didn’t.”
Bones and gravel crunched as she encircled the hollow, and him, her wings furled tight against her body and her movements sleek, powerful, and serpentine.
“You wanted to live. And you still do.”
The Judge stopped and raised her furled wings high above her back. “You’re not much of a storyteller, that’s true. But, though short, your story was truthful. I will strike a bargain with you, Peregrine Long.”
“A deal with the devil?”
She filled his head with amusement, and Peregrine almost smiled.
“Perhaps. You are, as you claim, an innocent man. But I have an agreement with Bonesteel. My solitude is disturbed only to pass judgment, and then I am due payment. If I’m to be denied my supper now, you must bring me
a replacement.”
“I need to bring someone for you to judge?”
“Yes. That’s how it’s done in Bonesteel. Judgment is swift and payment swifter. Bring me the real murderer, and I will judge him.” Quick as a wink, her head snapped around, and she pinned him with her silver eyes. “If you don’t honor this bargain, I’ll fulfill it myself.” She cocked her head to the side and added, “Maybe with that woman you covet.” Her muzzle came forward until she was so close, Peregrine could have touched her glistening scales. “And then I’ll come for you.”
His fists clenched. “How’m I supposed to find a murderer? I’m not a lawman.”
The Judge’s enormous muzzle filled Peregrine’s view.
“Simple. They’re all guilty until they prove their innocence.” She exhaled a putrid, steamy breath then turned away. She snapped her wings down to her side. Then the Judge slithered back into her cavern and out of Peregrine’s mind.
But she left him with a parting message: “You have one day, Peregrine Long.”
***
Peregrine downed another shot of whisky as Sheriff Wolfberg poured himself a drink. The sheriff opened his mouth to respond to Peregrine’s tale, but was interrupted by Isabeau’s appearance at the door.
“Peregrine?” she said. “What happened? You look like you fell off the butte and landed on your face.”
Peregrine smiled and tried to open his gray eye, but it was too painful. It wasn’t like it was useful anyway.
Isabeau crossed the room and shoved the Sheriff aside. “Where’re you hurt?”
“Bruises mostly, broke a tooth.” He gestured toward his face. “This eye’s doing better already.” It was a lie. The bad eye was worse than ever.
“He shouldn’t be sitting here, Wolf.” She pulled back Peregrine’s duster before he could stop her hands. Her eyes widened as she spied the rope burns around his neck. “What the hell?”
“What the goddamned hell is right.”
Peregrine didn’t need turn to know who’d spoken. Simone’s husky voice was a match for Isabeau’s.