Toil & Trouble

by Jessica Spotswood

  I stood under the student government banner, waiting for her to do her trick, hit me with the truth. All the sharp, reproachful things she could have said. Stony, you are a bad disaster, a rageful monster, a battering ram. A Craftsman hammer when all you need is a scalpel.

  And those things would have sounded right to me. They would have been true. I wasn’t sure I cared, was all. The sound of Riley Whitley screaming was still aces.

  Harmony put her head on one side like she was staring into me, measuring all the way down. Then she nodded. The bell rang for second lunch, and she gave me that small floppy shrug and hooked her arm through mine.

  We are the clever daughters. We are the witch-girls. That’s all you need to know.

  When Harmony smiles, the world melts. People’s secret futures open in front of her like doors. She decides you’re a hero, you become one. She decides you’re a villain, or a slimy asshole loser sitting on a big cement planter, you become that instead. Her best weapon is the truth.

  When I smile, though...

  When I smile, I’m not smiling. I’m showing you my teeth.

  I was born to bury saints in the yard.

  * * * * *

  THE WELL WITCH

  by Kate Hart

  Texas, 1875

  “THERE A MAN about this house?” asked the stranger.

  Elsa eyed the group of men. Few dared to live on the Llano Estacado, the high desert prairie lands of the Texas panhandle, and after three years alone there, she feared very little. She had a healthy respect for the usual dangers: sunstroke, starvation, snake bites, wolves. But men were the most unpredictable animals, and those that found Elsa’s oasis were usually lost both in geography and life, looking for directions, land, or, worst of all, wives.

  She always showed them on their way, but she did not care to provide otherwise. “I live here alone,” she replied. No sense in hiding the obvious. Possession was nine-tenths of the law—possession of a gun, anyway—but as she could only hold two of those at a time, she was forced to use less lethal weapons.

  The stranger crossed the line where her green island met the surrounding sea of rippling bleached grasses. “I’m Delbert,” he said, swinging a leg to dismount. Up close, wrinkles and a grizzled beard aged him beyond the other two. “This here is Roy.” Roy lifted a moth-eaten forage cap to reveal a nearly bald head. “And Zeb.”

  Zeb touched the brim of his cowboy hat. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, miss...”

  “Elsa,” she said.

  Delbert stared around the property. She watched him take in the inexplicably verdant landscape, the flowering bushes around the house, the fact that the house was made of wood when no tree could be found for miles. Beyond, the prairie stretched out of sight, punctured only by sagebrush and low cactuses.

  When she offered no explanation, Delbert cleared his throat. “Any chance we could get a bit of water?” He gestured at the canteen hanging from his horse. “Ain’t seen a drop since round about the Canadian.”

  “Well’s over yonder,” she said, pointing behind the house. It was impossible the men had made it that far without water, never mind that the river was north and she’d watched them approach from the east. They were either more lost than they realized or terrible liars, and neither boded well.

  “How’d you find a well all the way out here?” Roy asked as he dismounted.

  “Just lucky.” It was true—Elsa did feel fortunate to live with her humming awareness of what flowed beneath the ground. But with water more precious than money on the Llano, it didn’t do to go advertising her abilities.

  She stepped into the shade of her porch while the men filled their canteens. Roy guzzled straight from the bucket until he began to retch. “Worthless fool,” Delbert said. He fanned himself with his black felt hat, similar to the one Elsa herself wore. “Reckon we could stop off here for a day or two?”

  Elsa studied them. All three carried revolvers in Army-branded holsters, but they wore plain clothes, their faces dusty and sunburned. She didn’t ask about their travels—the less she knew, the better—but they wouldn’t get much farther on the piles of soap they were riding. “Until your horses are recovered,” she said finally. With all the grass on the Llano, their animals should have been healthy, which meant they’d either been ridden hard or neglected, and Elsa approved of neither. “My home is my own,” she said, “but you’re welcome to bunk down in the barn.”

  Barn was a generous term. The structure was cobbled together from the remains of a sod house and some adobe additions, the roof just tall enough for a man to stand. “It’s not much, but it’s clean.” Catching the look of distaste on Delbert’s face, she couldn’t help adding, “And the mule sleeps warm. His name is Otis.”

  Delbert opened his mouth, but Zeb shushed him.

  * * *

  That evening, Elsa served the men cornbread and beans, though her supplies were running low. The Army companies no longer needed guidance to find water, and they rarely came to the oasis anymore without her father’s wares to buy. With the bison hunted close to extinction, neither the buffalo hunters nor the Comanches were available for much trade, either.

  Elsa had been making do with her garden and some hunting, but she couldn’t grow coffee or sugar or cornmeal. She dreaded the days-long trip into town. Its small main street of clapboard storefronts made her feel trapped, the saloons and whorehouses held no interest, and shopping was a chore: the Anglo storekeepers tried to cheat her, and the Hispanos distrusted the German accent she’d gotten from her mother.

  As much as she disliked visiting town, having strangers on her property was far worse. Despite a gorgeous sunset blazing pink and orange on the horizon, Elsa ate dinner alone to avoid conversation. Few were likely to guess that the haven was of her making, but coveted land was a dangerous place to live. These men didn’t seem in the market for property, but she knew the house’s existence alone would make them curious about its interior, and its unusual landscape only made that worse.

  The inside was an oasis of another kind, filled to the low rafters with treasures gathered from her father’s travels. A stuffed bird with brightly colored feathers looked down from a metal cage, procured on a trip deep into Mexico. An enormous brown snake coiled around the cage and stretched across the roof beam to the far wall. A collection of skulls clustered in the front corner, including one large creature with three horns and a strange neck frill. Her father had traded with others who’d brought back beadwork from the frozen lands up north, beautiful silk gowns from beyond the great waters to the west, and shells the size of Otis’s head.

  A tall clock taken from an overloaded wagon train still kept time, and it tolled over the empty mesa every hour. When it struck nine, she lay down to sleep, but the men stayed up passing a bottle. The incessant wind carried their voices through her window. “That girl’s hair’s mighty strange,” Delbert said.

  “It’s black,” Roy said. “Nothing strange about that.”

  “But there’s gray in it, and she ain’t seen more than twenty summers.”

  “Silver,” Zeb corrected in a quieter voice. “It’s shiny like metal. Or water.”

  The other two teased him for having taken notice, but Elsa was flattered, though she stiffened again when Delbert spoke. “Think she’s Mexican or Injun?”

  Someone spit. “She’s brown, either way,” Roy said.

  “She could just be browned from the sun,” Zeb pointed out. “Don’t reckon it makes much difference, though, do it?”

  Elsa had to agree. She couldn’t have given her pedigree if asked. Comanchero traders like her father were named for their best customers, not their heritage. Most were descended from a combination of white Spanish settlers and soldiers and the local native tribes—Comanches as well as Apaches, Kiowas, Pueblos, and others. Elsa spoke English, Spanish, and some Comanche, and she let visitors assume as they pl
eased.

  “Oh, it makes a difference,” Delbert said, “but beggars like us can’t be choosers.”

  “Delbert,” Zeb said reprovingly.

  “I meant for provisions.” The scorn in Delbert’s voice made her glad she’d left him to sleep with the mule, though it seemed unfair to Otis. “I got no inclinations of that kind.”

  Be that as it may, Elsa thought, I’ll still be keeping my guns at hand.

  “Where d’you think her people are?” Roy asked.

  “Date on her momma’s grave says ten years gone,” Zeb said. “Nothing on her daddy’s stone, but he can’t be gone long, seeing as she’s still in her blacks.”

  Elsa was impressed, if disconcerted, by his observant nature. Otis had indeed been her sole companion since her father had failed to return from his last trip.

  “But how’d they end up here in the first place?” Roy persisted.

  “Maybe her folks was Comanche,” Delbert said. “They’re the only ones could survive out here.”

  Her parents had certainly been survivors. Her father, Domingo, had found Marta, Elsa’s orphaned teenage mother, beside a broken-down wagon on the Santa Fe Trail. He took her along on his trade route, where her ability to find water immediately, rather than wandering about searching, made him the fastest Comanchero around. When they’d realized a baby was coming, Domingo had parked his carreta and set up a trading base at the best well Marta could find along the cart road.

  “Comanches, hell.” Roy took a swig from the bottle. “She’d be sleepin’ in a tipi if so.”

  Elsa almost smiled. A tipi would have been a far sight cleaner than the sod house Domingo originally built. Dirt had rained into their hair and eyes and food, no matter how much newspaper Marta tacked to the ceiling. Once her mother stabbed a rat straight through the muslin that covered the walls.

  “Tipi makes more sense than a cabin,” Zeb said. “Must have taken months to haul that wood.”

  Weeks, anyway. That rat had been the final straw. Marta told Domingo that unless he built a proper house like the one she’d had as a child, she’d dry up the spring she’d created and move them all to town. He’d headed east the next week and returned with a wagon of lumber.

  “Mighty strange,” Delbert said around a lip full of fresh tobacco. “Not as strange as all the green around it, though.”

  Elsa strained to hear their replies. Her father had warned her not to expand the oasis, but it provided her only comfort after her mother’s death. Creating a gazing pool seemed the best way to honor a water witch, though Elsa had to admit that she might have gone overboard with the flowering vines on the trellis.

  Fortunately, the men didn’t seem to suspect anything more than luck. Roy mumbled something about how the earth was a curious place, and Zeb snorted. “It’s full of wonders, I’ll agree. For instance, I’m wondering if y’all will ever pipe down so I can sleep.”

  “Zeb’s cranky,” Roy said. “Must be time for his beauty rest.”

  He and Delbert mumbled a little longer, but Elsa didn’t catch anything worrisome. Still, she decided, tomorrow she would move the lock from the privy onto her cabin door. It wouldn’t keep out a determined man, but it should discourage a curious one.

  The grandfather clock clanged another hour, and she settled down into the feather mattress that had been traded for several buffalo hides. The last thing she needed was a man about the house. She was comfortable in the small museum of her parents’ lives, and hoped her rude barn guests would soon leave her in peace.

  * * *

  “Surprised you ain’t wearing pants, as much man work as you do ’round here.”

  Elsa shrugged at Delbert, ignoring his sneer. “Skirts make relieving oneself with modesty much easier.”

  His cringe satisfied her, and made Zeb chuckle. “We cooked bacon, Miss Elsa—would you like some?”

  She had not offered the men breakfast, and felt chagrined by his generosity. “Thank you,” she said. “My meat stores have gotten rather slim of late.” She paused, then went on. “Perhaps you know—has General Mackenzie caught Quanah yet?” Young chief Quanah led the last remaining band of free Comanches, and he’d been trying to hold off the Army’s advances by holing up down south in Palo Duro Canyon.

  Delbert laughed. “His band been at Fort Sill since June. Had to give up. They barely made it through the winter after Ol’ Bad Hand Mackenzie slaughtered all their ponies last fall.”

  Elsa kept her face a mask of composure, but Zeb’s was unmistakably marked with grief. “Well. I suppose I won’t count on them for trade then,” she said. She often wished her family had never helped the Army survive on the Llano, but even her father, who knew well that the Americans never kept their promises, had not guessed their capacity for savagery.

  “Them Co-manch ain’t the only ones with dead horses.” Roy slapped his hat against his thigh as he emerged from the barn. “Mine’s croaked and Del’s ain’t far behind.”

  They followed Roy into the barn, where, sure enough, his gray mare lay dead. Delbert’s gelding was also on the ground, taking shuddering breaths, and Zeb’s horse stood with its head lowered between its front legs. “Hey, Bitty,” Zeb said, rubbing her spotted flank. “It’s alright.”

  “Now what’re we gonna do?” Roy asked. “Worthless damn Injun ponies.”

  Delbert spit on the dead horse, which made Elsa gasp. “Indian horses with US Army brands?” she demanded.

  “They’re all stolen back and forth,” he said, as if she were not intimately acquainted with the practices of the area. “Damn. We gotta get moving somehow. How far to the closest trading post?”

  Elsa didn’t inquire about their hurry, but phrased her reply carefully. “Unless you can find folks willing to sell, and there aren’t many, you’ll have to go to Fort Sumner.”

  Roy blanched, confirming her suspicions. She wondered if they were criminals or just Army deserters on the lam. “That’s at least a week’s ride,” Zeb said, “one way.”

  “How far is Santa Fe?” Delbert asked.

  “Twice as far,” Elsa said. “Assuming you have good weather and can find water.” She wasn’t sure she’d bother giving them that help.

  Delbert punched his hand. “We ain’t got two weeks,” he growled, as if their problem was her fault.

  “Gonna be longer than that,” Roy said. “Zeb’s horse ain’t exactly up to the trip right now.”

  Zeb studied Bitty for a minute, then turned to Elsa. “I hate to impose,” he said, “but there’s nothing to be done. If you’ll have us a little longer, we’ll get Bitty nursed back to health, then I’ll head...somewhere, and get us fresh mounts.”

  Elsa sighed. Few men could survive the Llano on foot, and these three were certainly not up to the task. “Fine,” she said, resigned. “But you’ll have to earn your keep.” She looked at the dead mare. “And you can start by burying that horse.”

  Delbert turned away, and Roy followed, grumbling, but Zeb nodded. “We’ll be much obliged.”

  * * *

  The next two weeks passed slowly. Elsa was used to doing—and dressing—as she pleased, but the men’s presence meant no baths on the porch or dips into the spring. The men were always in her space, save the sanctuary of her cabin, and even there she felt watched. The worst was surprising Roy by accident one dark evening in the privy. She’d seen nothing of importance, but his face flamed for days.

  He should have been embarrassed by his shabby work around the homestead. Zeb accomplished twice as much in half the time, while Delbert stood about and gave orders, later taking credit for work he’d only watched. Roy’s horse had passed hours after Delbert’s, and when both were buried, she’d assigned the men all the tasks she never managed to get to: repairing the fence on Otis’s paddock, digging a new irrigation path to the far edge of the garden, fixing a hole in the roof of the barn.

  “I
t don’t rain out here,” Roy said. “Why bother with the roof?”

  “Because when it does rain out here, it comes down in sheets,” Elsa said. “Take your pick of which to sleep under.”

  Roy and Delbert gave in, but their resentment was growing, especially once they ran out of whiskey. Every evening at dusk, they sat about her front porch, glancing surreptitiously at the cabin door. She wore the key around her neck and never let on what wonders hid inside, but the clock’s hourly chime couldn’t be missed.

  “How the devil did you get a grandfather clock all the way out here?” Roy asked one night after dinner.

  “I didn’t,” Elsa said.

  Delbert snorted. He’d long stopped accepting her evasions as answers. “Well somebody did.”

  “My father found it abandoned on a wagon trail,” she lied. Admitting he was a trader would only make them wonder about his inventory.

  “And he hauled it on horseback?”

  “On a wagon.” She changed the subject. “Zeb, Bitty is looking better today.”

  Zeb turned from the porch rail, where he’d been watching tuft-headed prairie chickens settle down for the night. “She’s gaining weight back. Glad you had that feed stashed away.”

  Elsa had sacrificed some of Otis’s winter stores. Getting these men out of her life as soon as possible was worth it, and she trusted that Zeb would replace the feed when he returned—assuming he returned at all. The man was mighty helpful and his patient manner pleased her, but even honest men could die.

  She’d liked to learn more about him, but questions invited more of the same, and she didn’t care to reciprocate. Besides, Delbert seemed to be enjoying his fictional future role in the cattle ranch he’d invented as their reason for passing through. He would, of course, be quite important. His claims that Charles Goodnight planned to start a similar enterprise nearby, however, gave Elsa pause. Goodnight was already well-known as a cattle baron, and with the Comanche threat removed, she feared it would only be a matter of time before her oasis was absorbed by larger claims.