“She satisfies her promise,” he told them, casting a glance over his shoulder to where Isobel sat, still exhausted from whatever she had done. “Be at rest.”
He wasn’t sure if anything was listening, or if he wanted it to be listening to him. But it seemed to ease some of Isobel’s nerves.
“Rider.” The road marshal crooked a finger at him. “Come be useful.”
Wisely enough, she didn’t want her companions-turned-prisoners helping her tie the insensate magicians into the saddles. While Isobel held each animal’s halter, murmuring soothing words when they shifted or skittered, they slung each body facedown across a saddle, looping rope over their thighs and chests to keep them in place.
He studied the knots under his hand thoughtfully. “How long did you say it was to the judge?”
“Two, three days, at a steady walk,” LaFlesche said. “We switch out the horses, between yours and mine, and so long as everyone can keep up”—she shot a glare at her awake prisoners—“we should do fine.”
“You’ve done this often? Slinging people across saddles like sacks of meal?”
“Usually they’re awake enough to walk. Or I drag ’em.”
Isobel’s expression, overhearing that, was somewhere between horrified and thoughtful, and he gave her a stern look and a firm headshake until she rolled her eyes at him. He gave Steady a final pat, thanking him for putting up with the body slung across his saddle, and went to fetch his hat and pack.
“Boots up!” LaFlesche called. “Time to move.”
Gabriel did not enjoy walking. The moment they switched the body off Steady, he had to fight the urge to mount and ride on ahead of the rest of the party. He cast another sideways glance at Isobel walking alongside him, leading Uvnee, who was now carrying one of the magicians. The Hand was sweating, even though the day had been cool and overcast since they hit lower ground, her skin too ashen for comfort. He worried but said nothing. What was there to say? The magicians needed to remain insensible until such a time as they could contain them somewhere, ideally in a lockhouse. If there was a sitting judge in this town, it seemed likely that they would have one there.
Then he’d force Isobel to rest. Until then, she had no choice. So, he did the best he could: he gave her something else to bite at.
“Notice anything?”
She lifted her head at that, her nostrils flaring as though testing the air. “We’re being watched.”
“Of course we are.”
Isobel glared at his nonchalant tone, as though offended that he had noticed it before she had.
He felt his lips twitch. “Isobel. Two riders, a marshal, and two easterners, with two magicians slung over horseback like sacks of potatoes? The only wonder is that the entire Territory hasn’t lined up to watch us go past, complete with games and feasts.”
He wondered what stories would come of this, told to the children of those who’d been there to see it, if he’d live to hear any of them. He’d come back someday if he could, to listen.
Assuming he had the chance. His off hand touched his ribs; he couldn’t feel the scarring through his jacket and shirt, and the ache was absent save when he bent forward, but he knew they were there, a constant reminder that riding with the Devil’s Hand was not an easy—or safe —road. And that was without lugging two wind-mad magicians three days to an unknown destination.
Or the risk of being tried for the crime of killing an unarmed man. Because after one day of their company, he was close to taking the carbine’s stock to the side of the younger American’s head simply to shut him up. Because apparently even the sulkiest of prisoners felt the need to speak after a while.
By the time evening came, he learned that he’d been right: the younger man was a scout, name of Anderson, and he had been hired to escort US Marshal Paul Tousey safely across the Territory and back again. Like every ex-Army scout Gabriel had ever met, Anderson was bitter, cranky, and not prone to taking orders from anyone graciously, much less a female. He grumbled about having to walk, he grumbled about being dragged off to “some jump-up,” and he particularly grumbled about being dragged off by, in his words, “two wimmin.” Gabriel’s laughter at that hadn’t helped his mood at all; he had clearly expected more sympathy.
LaFlesche solved the problem by shoving a rag into his mouth and affixing it with a cord so he couldn’t spit it out.
Tousey, on the other hand, seemed quietly resigned to the situation. He had offered nothing more than his name and occupation, but on the morning of the second day, Gabriel had handed him the badge he’d found. The marshal held it in his hand briefly, then pinned it to the inside of his lapel, his hands shaking only slightly.
“Thank you” was all he’d said, but there had been a wealth of meaning there. Gabriel didn’t hold with letting a thing define who he was, but he knew Isobel took comfort in her sigil, figured marshals would too, no matter what side of the river they were sworn to. Too, Tousey placed his feet with the careful consideration of a man who’d been surprised by snakes or gopher holes at least once, but without taking his attention off either the land around him or his companions. He slept that way as well, Gabriel had noted: quiet but alert. Without Jefferson’s intervention, the marshal might have found himself in the Territory anyway. Or not.
Their horses had fled when the magicians began their circle, Tousey admitted midway through the second day; they hadn’t thought to hobble the beasts. “I’d ridden that beast all the way from the Mississippi,” he said. “Territory-bred, they told me. Went the entire journey without spooking or startling. But the moment those two and their kind . . . did whatever it was they did, the fool beast lost what little mind it had.”
“Magicians are something else entire,” LaFlesche said, and Tousey had only shaken his head, as though he still was not entirely certain he believed anything they were telling him.
Isobel had merely snorted, walking with a hand on Uvnee’s neck as the mare plodded along with one of the magicians weighing her down, still less than pleased with the burden, from the way her ears kept twitching.
“We were warned . . .”
We, Gabriel noted. He didn’t think Tousey referred to the scout with him, which likely meant that other marshals had been sent into the Territory. Had they all been sent to search for magicians? If Jefferson were as canny as was claimed, he’d have more than one spoon to the pot.
“Warned of what? Clearly, not to not meddle.” Isobel had been ignoring the Americans as best she could in such proximity, but that seemed to push her too far. “What did they warn you of, then? Because from here it was nothing useful.”
But that was all Tousey was willing to share. LaFlesche gave Isobel a hard stare, as though to remind her whose prisoners they were, and Isobel snorted again, then walked more swiftly, striding ahead of their group.
“She’s young,” Gabriel said to LaFlesche, watching her go. “And still green as grass, for all that she’s learned since we set out.” And bitter, he thought. That was something new, and unwelcome. Finding the source of the buffalo’s death seemed to have deepened her anger, not lessened it, as though despite fulfilling her promise, something still spurred her on.
“She needs to learn faster” was all LaFlesche said.
Isobel could hear them talking behind her, although the words themselves were too low to be overheard. She knew it was petty, knew that she had snapped when she should have been calm, but neither Gabriel nor the marshal seemed to understand the pressure of warding like this, around two different objects, constantly moving.
And telling them, trying to explain, would make it sound as though she were weak or complaining—and she wouldn’t do that, not in front of the marshal, and of a certainty not in front of outsiders.
She did regret irritating the marshal, for purely selfish reasons. LaFlesche had been on the Road long enough that her stories must be fascinating. Isobel slid a hand under her hat and scratched at her scalp, wondering if the older woman knew a source of the dry washing
powder Devorah had given her, if that was a thing women on the road shared, and if she’d annoyed the woman into keeping that secret from her.
But all these, regrets and distractions, were mere irritations compared to the stress of traveling with magicians.
Warded and unconscious, they were currently carried by Uvnee and LaFlesche’s tough little pony, whose Umonhon name Isobel couldn’t pronounce but suspected meant “pain to live with.” The mule had taken one whiff of the bodies and put up such a fuss that they’d decided to leave it with the packs. Flatfoot trailed them now, staying within sight—and within protection range were it needed —but at whatever distance the mule thought was safe from the threat traveling within their party.
Isobel felt much sympathy for the mule, but she wasn’t allowed to join it. She couldn’t go far at all: while Gabriel and LaFlesche took turns riding ahead to scout the path they were on, Isobel needed to stay close to the bodies, fully aware that if they woke, she might not be able to do anything to stop them again, but she would be the only chance their little party had.
And they were still being watched. If that made her uneasy, the scout seemed ready to jump, twitching like a rabbit, forever looking over his shoulder and muttering under his breath. That, more than Gabriel’s reassuring words, made the unease bearable —anything that worried him that much couldn’t help but please her.
Still, she watched her mentor finally give in to his obvious impatience with their slow walk, swinging up into Steady’s saddle and trotting ahead, and wished that she were with him, leaving these strangers behind. And if part of that craving to feel Uvnee under her, the wind in her face, was the desire to ride away and never come back, abandon this entire mess . . . surely there was no shame in thinking dark thoughts, so long as you kept control over them.
But with Gabriel gone, she had to drop back and join the others, out of respect to the road marshal if nothing else. Thankfully, the older woman didn’t seem to take offense at her silence, nor did she seem perturbed, but merely strode along, her trousered legs covering the ground more easily than Isobel in her skirts.
“What’s it like to ride in them? Trousers, I mean?” Isobel finally asked, as much to silence the noise in her head as any real curiosity.
LaFlesche seemed surprised by the question, glancing down at her legs as though she’d only just noticed the fitted material. “I honestly don’t recall anything different. Been a while since I wore skirts for anything other than fancy dress for a party, and that was . . .” She laughed at herself. “Well, a while ago.” She sobered then, looking sideways at Isobel, then back ahead to the trail. “When I was younger, there were some as thought I was trying to be a man, and figured they’d remind me otherwise, but most folk, they see the sigil, and they mind their manners well enough. And those who don’t, well, they learn quick the Road doesn’t suffer the weak, not for long.”
“You ever . . . regret?”
“What, taking up the sigil or taking on the Road?”
“Either. Both.”
LaFlesche chewed over her answer a bit. “My gram, she came all the way from the old world, didn’t stop until she landed in Junction and kitted an even dozen; she used to say that we don’t choose our way, the way chooses us. Not sure I believe that entirely—everyone’s spent time on the wrong trail at some point—but there are some things . . . I don’t believe the sigil chooses us, but I’m not entirely certain we choose it, either. Maybe it’s a meet-in-the-middle sort of thing? Like falling in love.”
“Wouldn’t know about that,” Isobel said with a shrug.
“Never fell nose over knees for a shy smile or a sideways look?”
“Not yet.” There’d been some good-looking boys back in Flood, but she’d thought them just distractions, and she knew better than to fall for a charmer at the card tables.
“Ah, well, there’s time. Just remember love’s a lovely thing but it’s not all that’s in the world, and you’ll be fine.”
Isobel thought about Peggy, whose husband had died of illness, and how that seemed to have set her free, and Iktan, whose wife was a tiny, quiet thing who never lifted her eyes to anyone but was always smiling like she had a secret, and Marie, who like the boss had a stream of lovers but none who stayed, and thought she’d have no trouble remembering that.
They fell silent for a while again after that until they came down a slope and to a small but strong-running stream, Steady’s hoofprints clear on the sandy mud on its shore. Isobel placed her hand out, halting the marshal when she would have waded into the shallows.
“If there were a danger, your mentor would have left sign,” LaFlesche said, a little irritated at being halted.
“Safe or no, it’s running water. You really wish to take them across without thinking this through?” Isobel stared at the road marshal in disbelief. Running water could break bindings; that was why most folk claimed land near creeks but didn’t try claiming the creeks themselves, no matter how much their crops or flocks might need it. Crossing a stream was the first thing you did if you managed to offend a magician, assuming you lived that long.
“You’re the Devil’s Hand,” LaFlesche said, squinting down at Isobel in what, in another woman, might be called confusion. “Surely a creek like this could not break his bindings?”
Isobel felt the faint urge to scream. She had done it, not the boss. His power but her action. And since she wasn’t entirely sure what it was that she had done, she had no idea if it could be broken by running water.
There was no way she could tell the marshal that. Not in front of the two Americans, not . . . not ever. The Devil’s Hand. She spoke for him—in their eyes, she was him.
Isobel had been raised to keep a clean mouth, but at that moment, she could have cursed Gabriel for riding off and leaving her alone with this.
The marshal took her silence for assent. “So, we simply stand here until—”
“No, hush.” Isobel was trying not to think, trying not to be distracted by the quiet singing of the water against stone, letting the sense of how rise up in her.
Help me, she asked the sigil, the whispering noise. Help me do this.
Once again, she was in the saloon, folding linens, sweeping floors, kneading bread, watching the boss deal out cards. Flickerthwack against the green felt. Flickerthwack the water against stones.
Magicians were wind, the binding was earth’s bone, the risk was water. Water wore against stone same as wind, but not quickly. Water could move stone, but not easily.
She ducked under the reins and stepped between the horses. The magicians were laid out so their heads were to the outside, their feet—one set booted, one bare and bloodied —were to the inside. Part of her quailed from touching them, protested even being this close to the push and lure of the power trying to escape, but she forced herself to place her palms on their ankles, feeling the unpleasantly papery touch of skin even through cloth and leather, sinking deep the way she did to bone, finding the pulse within the rush of blood and the give of flesh, slowing it until it was slower than water, slower than the wind, slow as stone and bone, and she nodded once, her voice saying, “Now go.”
The water was winter-cold even through her boots, the thrumming of power trying to escape softened but not silenced entirely, and Isobel pressed forward, pressed deeper, keeping the binding intact despite the water washing over it, until they were on the other bank, someone bringing the horses forward, leaving her standing, stock-still and unutterably dizzy, only to fall to her knees.
“Isobel? Hand!”
She opened her eyes to see one of the men—Tousey, she remembered —kneeling in front of her, his hand outstretched, LaFlesche’s hand round his wrist, keeping him from touching her. The other man, Anderson, was nowhere to be seen, and she’d’ve worried more about that if she could stop the bells from ringing inside her head.
“It’s all right,” she said, and both hands retreated. “I just . . . Water?”
Rather than a canteen, as
she’d expected, LaFlesche disappeared and returned with a tin cup filled with creek water. She took it with a nod of thanks, then sipped, the water burning a path down her throat, then splashed what was left into her hands, pressing them to her face, the cold shocking her to full alertness.
“Do you need to rest?”
“No.” Yes, but not until Gabriel returned or they caught up with him.
“We have company.” Anderson’s voice, a low, unhappy growl, and Isobel twisted without standing up to see what he was talking of.
Three paint ponies, bare-backed and bare-headed, and three riders standing beside them, their hair long and loose, their bodies marked by colors in patterns too distant to determine.
“Scouts, likely,” LaFlesche said, matter-of-fact.
Tousey was less calm. “They were following us? Why?”
Isobel had spent most of her strength getting to her feet but was pleased to feel her knees remain steady. She made the clicking noise that got the mule’s attention, and while it was still reluctant to approach the horses too closely, it came to her side, allowing her to lean on it. “Like we were here for their entertainment,” she responded finally, recalling Gabriel’s words. “Though you were likely watched since you crossed the River, came into the Territory proper. By one tribe or another. Just because they allow us here doesn’t mean they trust us. Particularly not you. But they wouldn’t do anything unless you did something first. That’s the Agreement.”
“They knew better than to attack us,” Anderson spat, and LaFlesche didn’t quite roll her eyes skyward for patience, but Isobel could tell the marshal wanted to.
Isobel felt no such restraint. “You’re fair game now, if they want. Only thing that’s keeping them back is you’re with us.”
She nodded to LaFlesche, who got the horses moving again. Anderson, his arms crossed over his chest, his hat pulled low over his face, stomped after her, every line of his back showing what he thought of her, of their watchers, of the entire situation, while Tousey seemed to be considering her words, studying the silent figures next to their ponies.
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